


The Health Benefits and Damages of Being an Avenger

by Mushka



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Drama Llama, Family Feels, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Oh look, Peter basically has to deal with everyone wanting to cuddle him, Peter is young, Prison, Violence, angsty, author shall figure their shit out eventually, bad guys are mean, because they're superheroes duh, bit of torture, emphasis on the kid, it's brief i promise, most pain, mysterious man in black and red leotard, set after the events of TASM2, snuggles heal all pains, some pain?, that sounds terrible, where even is Phil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 73,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mushka/pseuds/Mushka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tash? You done cleaning up the helpless puppies down there?"</p><p>“They’re monkeys. And yes. Status report.”</p><p>“I’m up here with Spider-man. He’s bleeding out despite my best efforts. ETA?”</p><p>“Two minutes.”</p><p>“Where are Stark and Rogers?”</p><p>“Arguing.”</p><p>“They’ll wanna see this.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings.  
> This is a whole new area for me, so Imma see how this goes. I'd be happy to hear some suggestions if any of you crazies out there have something for me, but I am gonna warn you now that a lot of people are probs gonna be injured in this fic. Because I'm mean like that.

Peter done fucked up.

He knew this, with undeniable clarity, as he smashed through the fifty-second story window. Glass shattered around him as he landed on what might have once been a sleek conference table. 

A whump left his throat as he hit the table. The resulting splatter of blood from the impact of Peter's many cuts hitting the hard surface made the table understandably less apealing. 

"Urgh," Peter groaned as his brain got past the adrenaline of the moment. He freezes as a number of creaking noises fill the room. 

A crack echoed around the office as the table split down the middle, buckling under the weight of Peter's body and the stress of high impact. The spandex-clad hero jolts as he hits the ground, feeling both halves of the table wedged on either side of his torso. He lowers the leg that is braced straight up against one of the table halves and sighs, wondering how long he can lie here and wollow in self-pity. 

Whoever thought white carpet was a good idea is in for a rude awakening when they get into the office tomorrow. Peter is a good person but he is not gonna come back here and clean his own blood off of the stupidly designed white carpet at 3am in the morning again. This is the 53rd time - they can just get new carpet. In a different colour. Surely it is time.

You'd think the citizens of New York would learn something from the endless property damage that is only caused by spiderman like 2% of the time. Maybe 3%.

"Urgh," Peter groans again as he throws an arm over his eyes and tries not to think about his shitty life choices. The table does not make a good snuggle buddy. He has empathy for the table, since it's broken, but it is sharp and pokey and making an unstable groaning noise. A smart decision would be to get out of the table and pretend this never happened. 

Right... now. Now. Now. And Now. 

"Gerroff me," Peter mumbles, making no real effort to move.

The table responds by continuing to squash him into an uncomfortable triangle. Its splinter teeth nibble on the revealed skin on his sides. He must have ripped his suit upon entry. 

Who is he kidding, he ripped everything upon entry, including numerous amounts of skin.

It would be so great to pass out right now. Super healing sucks. Well, no, it doesn't suck, but he never gets to pass out properly anymore. He is lying between two halves of wood, his head hurts and he's bleeding from somewhere. Probably multiple somewheres. Really, could his day get any better? Should he stop the crawly feeling of blood filling the crevice beneath him? Probably. But its like trying to find the motivation to go running at 5am in the morning. It's just not gonna happen. 

Obviously his entrance through the window had been anything but smooth. His body is certainly a testament to that, and not particularly pleased with him at present. But while his healing is currently making short work of the smaller cuts, a certain gaping wound under his ribs is being somewhat more stubborn. 

Also, bruising. Not fun.

A quick inventory tells Peter that a shard of glass the size of his hand has just missed his lower rib on the left hand side. 

On the plus side, it hadn’t shattered and pushed itself further into his body. He could probably pull it out if he could get vertical. On the down side, spandex was proving to be a pretty poor means of protection against anything, really, including glass shards, and his spidey suit was shredded. Well, mostly shredded. He was still un-naked (heh, un-naked), but bits of skin and blood peek through the suit from pretty much every angle.

Peter picked at the cut that had split the spider on his chest in half and huffed in exasperation. He hated sewing. Aunt May always asked him why she couldn’t fix whatever he needed fixing. So he had to pilfer the house while she was at work. He just couldn’t argue with the woman. Somehow, he always lost. Probably because he was always wrong.

Peter turns his attention to the shard once again, gauging how much blood he would lose should he choose to pull it out. When he pulls it out. Basic first aid says that this is a no go. Peter knows that pulling any kind of protruding object from the body should never be attempted outside a hospital.

Although, then again... He probably won't die of blood loss if he pulls it out. Maybe. 

Not that he hasn't had worse before. He’s been shot, electrocuted, almost crushed (like one time! Okay, maybe more than once. Definately less than twenty times) and his body has been pummelled more than he cares to admit. Alright, so that sounds a bit bad, but he almost always wins okay?! It wasn’t like he was a massive loser that continuously fails to do the one thing he promised to do… 

Unhelpful thoughts Peter. Plain old unhelpful.

He pokes at the shard while he mulls it over. Thinking about it doesn’t make the shard magically disappear. If only. 

Peter acknowledges that a decision needs to be made soon, however, as the wound is creating a blood lake beneath him. The wound at his side which is contributing the most blood has a slow flow going which is running down behind his hips and under his butt. Kinda gross. He's literally sitting in a pool of his own blood. He wonders belatedly whether he can wait long enough for his blood to pool and make a ... kind of... crime scene imprint. That would be cool. Wait, no, that would not be cool, this is not Peter body stamp time, this is oh shit don't die time. Go away crazy Peter. Your ideas are terrible.

So. He's laying in his own blood, wedged between two halves of a conferance table, fiddling with the shard of glass sticking out of his side, trying to remember which chemical is best at removing blood stains. Also, the news helicopter that caused this epic mess is still hovering outside, probably filming the whole thing. 

Excellent.

“Well. This sucks," the hero groan-sighs. He can totally pep talk himself out of this. “It’s time to get out of the table Peter. Come on. And then we can go home and bathe and sleep and forget this whole thing happened. And get a new job because the Daily Planet sucks and they hate me, well not me, but spiderman me. Not that that is a relevant thought at this moment in time. Shake it off! It’s only the entirety of your body’s blood supply emptying out into the carpet. The white carpet. Which I refuse to clean. Stupid fancy interior design. Aaaand…. I’m still talking to myself.”

A quick glance that takes much more effort than it should tells Peter that he is going to have to inch his bum all the way to the other end of the split table in order to get himself out of his wedged position. Gravity will not be on his side as he attempts this, which means he will be kissing goodbye another half a litre of blood. Which would be an interesting test of his biology now that he thinks about it - he has no idea how much blood he can conceivably replicate before his body shuts down or needs sustenance to create more. Can't create something out of nothign after all. This is why he eats so much. Argh, that's besides the point! Priorities Peter. 

He hisses as he forces himself upright, the movement twisting the glass further inside. He ignores the pain as he scoots forward and frees himself from the confines of the table. He grunts as he pushes himself into a kneeling position. Peter spares a quick glance at the wreckage behind him and stifles a giggle at the red snail trail covering the floor and mapping out his progress. 

Ah well, he's in a somewhat upright position now. Must be time to face the sharp, pointy, portruding object. He takes a couple of deep breaths to steady himself as the shard cuts into his hand. On his count of three he jerks it out with an exhale which becomes more of a guttural whine. 

Blood. Blood everywhere. 

Well, that wasn’t wholly unpredictable.

Still, Peter just freaking pulled out an object that was impaling him out of his gut. He is a badass. Does it still count as impaling if the object does not pierce clean through? Peter votes yes.

“I AM spiderman,” he pants, somewhere between triumphant and pained. There's a lot of panting involved. 

He throws the shard as far as his body allows. This turns out to be about a metre and into a wall.

Well okay, still maybe not as dramatic as he would have liked it be. Especially under the circumstances. Woulda been more cool if he'd had an audience. Other than a media helicopter who probably only captured his crash landing.

He sighs and lets himself fall backwards again. He needs the blood to stay in his body which would be better achieved with the help of gravity. 

How could he have missed that damn helicopter? Peter had webbed one of the helicopter’s blades instead of the building behind it, which had been his intent. Perhaps there should be bonus points thrown in here. Surely hitting the single blade made him an excellent shot despite not aiming for the freakin’ thing. 

Judging by how quick he was whiplashed into the building, it was a feat of greatness not to be ignored.

He should also be commended for allowing that to happen. Under normal (heh, ‘normal’) circumstances, his weight would have caused the helicopter to tilt heavily to one side and eventually spiral out of control, hence the reasoning behind his quick release. So, technically, he had only been attached to the helicopter blades for a couple of seconds. Just enough time to be thrown into a building.

He was really going to have to work on his landings. He still slammed into walls as a result of his momentum on a fairly frequent basis. 

Admittedly, this particular landing had been his worst yet.

He rolls tiredly onto his uninjured side, and sized up the shooter of his left hand to the wound before filling it with his webbing. 

There. First aid done. 

Stings like a son of a gun.

Just as he carefully puts his feet beneath him and determines that he is upright and therefore ready to leave, the Daily Bugel helicopter came back into view, reels still running. 

They have a spot-light. Wonderful.

Temporarily blinded, Peter could only thank the heavens for his mask, which was saving him from a considerable amount of embarrassment as Peter Parker. Didn’t much help spiderman though.

He considers flipping the helicopter and therefore Jameson off. Well... He does have a reputation to consider. All the kids look up to him. 

True story. 

Instead, ignoring his injuries like a real man who doesn't know what's good for him, he whoops and throws himself out the window that he initially smashed through. 

Gotta make it look good. 

This is, of course, showmanship mostly, because he still felt like he’d been hit by a building. Which he had. 

He could feel the pull on his side as he activated his web shooters and began his flight path toward the problem he was originally headed towards. 

This was now going to suck to fix. And also be harder to fix, because he was going to be a lot slower. Blood loss. You know how that shii...ndig goes. 

To top that steaming pile off, he still didn’t know what he was fighting. What he does know is that he had woken up with his spidey senses tingling up and down his spine and pointing him thatta way. He wasn’t a big fan of that particular feeling, because it also made his tongue all tingly, like he had just eaten un-ripe pineapple or something. 

Unpleasant. 

He did, however, appreciate the inbuilt navigator telling him where to go. Turns out spidey senses are both an early detection system (he could see the future! Maybe the fortune teller business had a better work place environment than photography) and a compass. Handy.

So yeah. He had snuck out of the house, making sure not to wake Aunt May, who had just come home from a double shift at the hospital, and headed in the dangerous feely direction. Right before slamming into an unsuspecting building and eating some glass. 

Buuuut… we’re actively avoiding thinking about that. 

Peter loved the feeling of swinging through New York. His gift/curse allowed him to fly/fall and made the whole thing worth it most of the time. There was always a balance though, and when you are given something, something else is inevitably taken away. Being Spiderman is a pretty big gift supposedly, because Peter doesn’t really have a lot anymore. 

Whatever, Peter is toooootally dealing with it. Look how well he just acknowledged that! 

As he rounded the building on 5th avenue, he came face to face with the reason for the tingly feeling. 

Mutant spider-monkeys. Practically invincible mutant spider-monkeys by the way the shots from police are doing nothing at all to stop them. They are also very angry, invincible, mutant spider-monkeys with the cutest little faces ever.

“What is it with scientists and monkeys?” He asks as he lands in the midst of the police barricade. There are at least six cop cars and twelve cops cowering in various defensive positions. “Leave the monkeys alone! Have none of you seen 'Planet of the Apes?' I mean, I know they make viable test subjects due to their genetic similarity to humans, but give the little guys a break!”

“Spiderman!” One of the cops hiding behind a police car, which seems to be their default position these days, yells in surprise as he drops behind him. Peter thinks he hid his little stumble at the landing side pretty well. 

Apparently, not so much, as he gets quite a few concerned looks. The cop who seems happy enough to speak, and who has hair the same shade of blonde as Gwen’s dad came to lay a hand on his shoulder. (Ouch, bad thought, now he was guilt ridden all over again. It’d been almost a full year since her death, but… yeah).

“You should maybe take tonight off son. The avengers have it covered.”

“Whaaaaaa…. This is totally my turf. I thought they had to save the world and stuff? I look after the small-fry and they deal with the gods and aliens. That was our deal. Okay, so there was no conversation involved in said 'deal' but a deal is still a deal. Deal? Oh man, that was too many deals, wasn't it.”

The cop's hand doesn't move off his shoulder. In fact, he seems more concerned now, and it actually feels like the dude is trying to push Peter away. 

“You look like you could use some down time. Rest. Do whatever it is that you do when you’re not saving us chumps. I’m looking out for ya on this one.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold up there sheriff. I can totally clean this up for you. I’m awesome. Plus where are the dudes… and Widow. I don’t see them anywhere? They haven’t rocked up yet have they? I can help you!”

“Go home son.” Peter bets that the cop thought he was being firm. But there was no way Peter was turning around when there were people who needed him. Even now the monkeys were chasing after bystanders with murder in their massive, teary eyes. Naaaaw.

Oh. Oh! Ergh. Not as cute when they had their teeth in your neck. 

Peter dove over the police car and slid across the next few in his way as police officers left and right made grabs for him. They could keep their damn paws to themselves. 

He winced in sympathy as he approached the poor dude with a monkey latched into his neck. The guy was writhing in pain on the asphalt, and the little fluffy monstrosity was not giving an inch. There was also about a hundred racing towards them in a tiny army. Peter didn’t like the red glint in their eyes.

He takes a split second to change course and lasso his webbing around the dude before catapulting them both towards the nearest rooftop for some relative safety. Peter promptly detaches the little guy's teeth from skin by digging his fingers precisely into jaw musvles, and is drenched with even more blood for his trouble. Turns out that the tiny monkey had gone straight for the jugular.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, I wasn’t expecting that to happen. I mean, I was, but not like that? Their teeth are anatomically pretty small? And thaaaaats… a lot of blood. I think I still win in the blood-soaked competition though. Not that it’s a competition! Oh gosh, priorities. Hmmm…. just let me… no come on now, let me… I gotta just... I said let me do it, goddammit!” 

The two of them are essentially having a slap fight as they each try to do different things with their hands. Well, Peter is trying to stop the flailing of hands with slaps, but he is also fumbling with the monkey that he has by the scruff of the neck in his left, so he's really at a bit of a disadvantaged here. 

He manages to grab one of the guys’ hands from where it's flailing at him and forces it over the wound. More basic first aid: always put pressure on it. 

The monkey is displeased. 

It's hissing and frothing like a mad thing, and its friends, being spider-monkeys, are climbing up the building at an increasingly rapid pace. Of course.

“Sorry little dude,” he manages to mumble as he covers it in webbing and hangs it upside-down over the edge. It’s still twitching in its little spidey egg.

“Right, should probably look for an ambulance.” Who is he even talking to? No one appreciates his witty one-liners. It's a harsh, unappreciated life. 

Peter turns back to the flaily dude and webs his hand onto his throat to work as a more permanent source of pressure. He then searches the road below for flashing lights and sirens.

He spots an ambulance blazing through the intersection about a hundred metres away and hefts the bleeding guy over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He’s making a pretty gross gargling noise which Peter tries his best to ignore as they bullet toward the moving vehicle.

To Peter’s surprise they see him coming and open the back door of the van to let him in. 

Geez, the paramedics must be getting used to him. It makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Or that could be the blood loss. Meh.

He uses his body to cushion their fall (ouch) and deposits the dude onto the gurney. The paramedics barely glance at him as they turn their full attention onto the patient with blood pouring out his neck. Or, at least, left-over blood drenching his t-shirt. Peter did a good job with the sealant. He quickly cuts the webbing he applied to the guy's hand so that the wound is accessible, then gives everyone a brief salute and a “laters” which is probably very accurate, before swinging once again into the fray.

Most of the people in the immediate vicinity have had the intelligence to flee. 

The only reason they have managed to do this without getting mauled is that the monkeys’ are now distracted. The Avengers have finally shown up.  
Not sure that this is how he wanted his whole introduction to go, Peter takes a moment to duck into an alley. He can hear the Avengers bickering from where he is crouched in the muck.

“I am not shooting these Steve. It’ll be like kicking a puppy. Or more accurately, incinerating a puppy.” That’ll be the famous Ironman. Or Tony Stark. Peter knows him from T.V. He tries to force down the little bubble of excitement he feels working its way through his body. So not the appropriate time for a celebrity freak out.

“Just stop them Tony, you don’t have to kill them.” 

Little bubble of excitedness is no longer little. Captain America. Oh my god. Not that Peter hadn’t expected this when the cops said ‘The Avengers.’ But still, he’s never met them. In person. 

“Haven’t really got a whole crap-tonne of other options here Cap. Must of forgotten to program in the ‘monkey hunting nets' option into the schematics. 

“Well, just grab them then. It’s not like they can bite you.”

“You try to grab one of those things. They have pointy teeth.”

“It’s a small mammal Tony. And again, you’re in the suit.”

Peter is reminded of a certain rabbit from a movie he once watched by Monty Python.

As he pokes his head round the corner of the alley to get a look at the action, he sees a female whirl out of nowhere and stab three of the monkeys heading in Captain America and Ironman’s direction. She shrugs as the arguing pairs’ attention snaps to her, and whips her leg around to take another one down before slitting its throat. She continues on her path of violence as the two catch on.

“Hey!” Ironman seems a little indignant.

This must be the famous Russian spy and only female of the team, The Black Widow. She is... freakin awesome. And also ruthless as hell. No monkey seems to be surviving her wrath. Suddenly Peter is somewhat more nervous about the series of events that might lead to an impromptu revelation of Spiderman to the Avenger team. Not looking like such a great idea anymore. They probably have never even heard of him.

Captain America fits his hand over his face in something Peter can only describe as a facepalm. His other hand makes a grab for his shield just as a herd of monkeys coming from another side alley converge on them. The shield works remarkably well as a deterrent, (like always, Peter supposes) as the monkeys throwing themselves at him and Tony are knocking themselves out on impact. At least Cap’s monkey attackers will live.

Speaking of which, upon further inspection there are a lot less attacking monkeys than Peter thinks there should be. Some of that could be explained through the dozens which seem to be stuck to the ground like shish-kebabs. Hawkeye must be around. 

Peter admires Hawkeye a bit more than he probably should. What can he say? The archer is Peter’s favourite. Not that the others aren’t interesting. 

Where are Thor and Hulk? He shudders to think what Hulk might do to the little critters. Even if they are nasty and frothy and bitey.

Searching the rooftops for the archer, Peter notices that one building seems a lot fluffier than the others. 

In fact, it is so fluffy that he can no longer see the building. Quite an interesting asthetic. He finds himself his lips quirking upwards as he watches. 

The smile falls pretty darn quickly when he realises that Hawkeye is at the top of the building. Hence why there is a massive wall of fluff trying to get to him. A swarm in fact. There’s nowhere for the archer to go with the exception of down. Which Peter has personally seen him do one too many times on T.V. He swears the man has a death wish half the time. Who willingly throws himself off buildings? Oh wait... pot, meet kettle. 

But... Hawkeye isn’t spiderman.

Peter launches himself from the darkness of the alley and towards the tower. He can’t get an angle that satisfies him on his direct approach – there are monkeys everywhere. So he shoots out some more webbing at some quickly calculated angles and uses the nearby buildings to change directions. 

As he circles back around he feels the wound in his side pull and the telling trickle of liquid begins once again. Probably shouldn’t have taken that turn so sharply, especially when it requires him to twist his body harshly to the right to make it. He just can't catch a break today!

Prioritizing his actions, Peter picks a building close by and uses his webbing to slingshot himself toward the top of Hawkeye’s building in an arch, to make absolutely sure that he couldn’t stuff up his landing a second time today.

Upon landing he finds himself all up in the archer’s space, and the dude is not happy about it. He is also not what Peter expected.  
Well he is in some ways… he's all muscled and lean at the same time, and attractive and all that (what? Peter can admit when another dude is pretty!). But he’s a lot younger than Peter thought the archer would be. Peter, to be honest, was expecting a fifty year old. A very fit fifty year old, but an old person all the same. Hawkeye looks to be in his early thirties. Where does all that experience come from? Not that he can talk, since he’s only nineteen. Hmmm. 

Anyway, time isn’t really on his side for this one, so he takes a quick minute to say “Sorry!” and “I promise I’m just gonna save you” before he’s grabbing the dude around the waist and jumping from the roof. It’s a bit weird hefting a guy who definitely has more muscle mass then he does damsel-in-distress style through the air to the nearest safe roof. 

Okay, when he says Damsel in distress, he means less Princess style and more Tarzan and Jane. It still looks cool, okay?

They both hit the roof hard and roll to a stop. The archer has handled this significantly better than Peter and is in a kneeling position with his bow trained on Spiderman. Peter himself had continued rolling for a bit, and is now taking his sweet time in getting back on his feet.

The monkeys are screeching and changing direction in the distance, but they can’t jump ship like Peter can.

Peter dusts himself off and is feeling pretty smug about his save of the other superhero. He can now say with confidence that he could be useful to the avengers. An asset… Is that the right word? Peter still doesn’t know about all the spy stuff. But the health benefits would definitely come in handy. Plus the avengers are freakin’ awesome, and Spiderman is decidedly less so, and Peter needs buddies who know both sides to him. 

It drives him crazy sometimes.

Also, okay, he will never admit this outloud, but also, he could probably use the help. In the form of training. And tactics. And basic common sense. 

Not that Peter isn't smart. In fact, he's pretty close to being a genius in certain things. Nowhere close to Gwen, or Harry (ouch and ouch) or even in the spectrum of someone like Tony Stark, but he is certainly capable of taking in his surroundings and making split second mathematical decisions about angles and distances and the like to avoid becoming a splattered spider. Or... most of the time he does. He's still working on it okay? Combining instinct with science is hard.

He's making this stuff up as he goes.

So yes. He is on a rooftop, with a recently saved Hawkeye and is feeling pretty pleased with his chances at an imminent friendship with a very famous, very skilled Avenger.

Right up until he gets punched in the throat.


	2. Chapter 2

In little more than a few seconds, Peter's face is ground into the cement, his arms are trapped behind him and there is an uncomfortable weight on his back. It doesn’t hurt, but Peter likes the use of his arms – they keep him in the air. Also useful when eating pizza. What does hurt are his airways, and for a while he is unable to do anything but wheeze.

“Uh, hey.” He eventually coughs out of his constricted throat. Why oh why did arrow guy immediately go for the throat punch? 

“I’m spiderman. What’s your name?”

Hawkeye snickers a bit at this but ultimately ignores him, which Peter thinks is rude. Especially since he’s sitting on top of him. He’s not exactly light. 

On top of this, (this being Peter's torso) the dude is totally fondling him. For weapons Peter realises. Warm hands skim over his shoulders and back and quickly over his thighs and legs.

“You gonna buy me dinner first?”

“Like I haven’t heard that one before,” the guy grunts. “I just punched you in the throat. You might wanna consider not talking for a while. You sound like your voice just broke.”

His hands finish their brief inspection. Really, where is he gonna hide weapons in spandex? It’s pretty obvious that Peter’s not packing. Oh burn, good one, way to help the self-esteem.

He moves to get up. He's pushed back down. Hawkeye shakes his head and pulls at Peter’s suit, looking for a zipper or something. Peter wishes there was a zipper. It would make becoming spiderman a lot easier. At the moment it’s about as easy to get into the suit as it is to get into skinny jeans with his calves. 

He almost pities Hawkeye and considers helping the dude out, but then remembers how completely ridiculous that would be.

“Uhm, look, I don’t really know you, and I’d like to keep my clothes on, thanks. I get that you’re a hero, but strangers and all that you know? Also, the media lies. They lie a lot.” Hint, hint, nudge nudge, Spiderman is not a baddie, Peter is innocent, let's all go home? 

The archer doesn’t look impressed at this. He pulls out a knife from an indecipherable pocket. The quickness of the move makes Peter nervous. He squirms and wriggles under the weight, but as usual, completely fails at his objective. He’s not going anywhere. Which is weird - usually he can bench press a bus. Must be the bloodloss.

“Okay, ah… I’m a superhero, you’re a superhero, we’re on the same side, let's be friends. Please don’t stab me in the back. It’ll hurt.”

Hawkeye eyes him curiously, like he’s just said something crazy, before flipping him so that Peter is on his back. He then proceeds to sit back down on Peter’s thighs. 

Hawkeye presses down on Peter’s shoulder as he cuts a line through the upper spiderman spandex. Peter makes a noise of dismay and starts resisting in earnest.

He gets in a few jabs and body bucks before Hawkeye has pinned him again. Peter’s not proud of this, but he whimpers a little. The dude just sighs in exasperation.

“Look I’m not gonna hurt you. I just need access to your wound. You’re bleeding all over me. It’s a bit nasty.”

Peter can feel his brow wrinkling in confusion under the mask. The same dude who tried to crush his Adam’s apple is now trying to give him first aid? Did something happen between act A and act B that he was not aware of?

“Oh. Okay, uhm. Unexpected.”

After a few moments of poking around, the archer makes a apprehensive noise that he does not elaborate on. Probably not such a good sign for Peter.

“How’d this happen?”

“Uh, I’d really rather not talk about it…”

Hawkeye raises an eyebrow. He then proceeds to strip off his jacket, his tactical gear and then his undershirt, and Peter is really starting to wonder where this is going when the jacket is back on and the shirt is being shredded with the knife which still hasn’t disappeared. Much to Peter’s dismay.

He’s already been stabbed enough for one day thanks very much. Okay, maybe not stabbed, but a sharp object impaled in him… and he is really not focusing on what is happening because that came out in his head way dirtier than intended. He’s nineteen! Come on now.

Turns out that the undershirt is a bandage that is totally unnecessary as Peter has his own fix-it material in his webbing, which he has also obviously used before. In fact there is still webbing around the wound. So cutting up a good undershirt is a complete waste. He doesn’t hesitate to tell archer-man this.

“Well,” Hawkeye smirks in reply “it hasn’t exactly worked so far has it?”

Peter frowns again, reminded that it’s just another thing that he is not so good at. Which is added to the list of things that he has fucked up over his career as spiderman.  


The list is depressingly long.

He is brought back to his current situation by a sharp pain that is Hawkeye tying and tightening the bandage. The dude pats him on the shoulder in sympathy.

“Why are you being so nice now?”

“Look… Sorry for punching you. It’s kinda a reflex thing you know? You don’t just come in and grab people like that. They’re probably gonna take it the wrong way, and you’re gonna end up getting punched in the throat.”

“Well thanks for the warning, but I think I got the message.”

The guy grunts and looks a tiny bit guilty. Which is understandable since, you know, injuring a wounded man and all that. Peter probably looks like shit.

Now that he’s all patched up, for the moment at least, Hawkeye is giving him a once over which Peter finds a little embarrassing.

“So you’re Spider-man.”

“Yup.”

“You’re pretty small.”

“Hey! I can, like, catch a freaking tank if I want! I’m amazing.” Yep, keep trying to convince yourself there Peter.

“I’m not saying you’re weak. You’re just… skinnier than I thought you were. Like you could use a pizza or three.”

“I eat enough.” 

No he doesn’t. Hasn’t really been eating as much as he should for quite a while now. Peter can still feel himself going on the defensive though. He has muscles. Okay, maybe not ridiculously bulgy ones like on the rest of the Avengers, but he’s a lean, mean fighting machine. Emphasis on the lean. And who also happens to get thrown around a lot.

Maybe it’s the blood loss, but Peter really hasn’t been paying attention the way he probably should. Can he use that excuse for his entire day? He needs to focus on the dude on top of him because he is starting to act pretty shifty, and making little twitchy movements towards his mask. Which Peter isn’t happy about at all.

“So look, you can see my face, I think it would only be fair if I got to see yours. Plus the spandex is kinda making me feel uncomfortable, and it’s easier to treat you if I can tell what hurts and what doesn’t hurt through more than just body twitches. Plus I’m genuinely curious.”

Peter can feel himself going stiff. There is no way that he is revealing himself as the scrawny, big-eyed man-child that he is. He has a secret identity for a reason. Every single person that he has any kind of connection with, with the exception of Aunt May, has died. He has learnt the hard way that Peter Parker and Spiderman MUST stay separate people. Because Peter Parker is weak. And spiderman can’t be.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’ll just be going…”

“I don’t think so.” Hawkeye seems to have some sort of steely resolve. Which is reinforced by the fact that he doesn’t get up off Peter. “As much as I hate to admit it, I now owe you one. Even over something as stupid as spider-monkeys. Which wouldn’t have anything to do with you now would they? Name similarities and all that.”  


Huh. Peter hopes not. 

“I thought it had something to do with the hulk or Captain America’s DNA? Mine’s not really that interesting compared to theirs.”

“Well okay. But you can never be too careful. Look, I’m sorry okay? But you’re not getting out of this.”

Peter disagrees. Even injured, he’s not gonna just give up. That’s the coward’s way, and Peter is not a coward. His arms have been trapped to his sides as a result of the archer’s thighs squashing him (not fun), but he has subtlety wiggled throughout their conversation just enough that his web shooters are now in the clear. Which gives him the ability to web Hawkeye in the face.

Which he does.

The guy gives out a sort of surprised grunt at this, but doesn’t immediately shift his attention to his newly blocked airways, which was what Peter was expecting. No, instead Peter find a hand around his neck reminding him of the position that he is in. The legs around his waist tighten to the point where he can feel the sharpness of his injury again. He also thinks that he’s losing blood circulation in his hands.

It is only then that Hawkeye reaches up and calmly pulls the webbing from his face. He then looks down at Peter blankly before the hand on his neck begins peeling the mask off. 

Peter can feel himself hyperventilating. Nothing good ever comes of people knowing who he is. He had planned to never take the Spider-man mask off in front of someone. Ever.  


So, in his little scenarios in which he meets the Avengers, they had never known his face. Which would have worked out just fine. They would have respected him as a fully grown, responsible individual, and he would have been able to keep them and Aunt May safe from people who wanted to hurt him. So yes. Upon realising that that this isn't going to go the way he invisiaged it, he freaks out a little. Just an incy wincy panic attack.

“Please,” Peter whispered as the mask slid over his mouth and revealed the barest hint of cheekbones. The archer seems to hesitate at his tone for a moment before yanking off the rest of the mask.

Silence.

Peter knows how impossibly young he must seem to the Avenger, especially since watery eyes always accompanied his panic attacks. He felt like a deer in the headlights, and probably looked like one too.

If Peter wanted to get out of this, he was going to have to use that. Which, by the reaction, might actually be a viable plan.

“Well fuck.” Hawkeye’s eyes are almost comically wide. He drops the mask next to Peter’s body fairly absently to stare at Peter some more. Peter tracks the mask’s position. He’s going to need it later.

They sit there for a while staring at each other. Or more accurately, Hawkeye sits on Peter while he lies sprawled in the dust without his mask on. Probably smearing dirt into his wound.

“I punched a twelve year old.”

“In the throat yeah. But, see this face? Not twelve.”

The man ignores him as he considers him some more. He is also frowning, which is not a good sign in Peter’s books. So far, in the ten minutes he has spent in the other man’s presence, Peter’s books have proven accurate.

The guy seems distracted, which leads Peter to try and Houdini his way out of his problems yet again. Which, like the other three times he tried, fails.

He awkwardly shrugs to dispel his anxieties. Not a good idea, as his body has had quite enough movement for one day and therefore complains. Loudly. 

He hisses and feels himself wince, like he always does, at the pain. His previous winces have been hidden by the mask. 

The archer hastily gets off of him. Huh. That was easy.

He has also, unfortunately, gathered himself from the initial shock of seeing Peter’s face.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving people, hunting things, the family business.”

More uncomfortable silence. Yay.

“Your whole family are spidermen? Or people?” The question sounds a little like archer-man has a headache, which would be a welcome means of distraction.

“No come on, Supernatural?”

The blank expression says it all. No comprende. More staring. Which Peter doesn’t have time for anymore. He’s free from the clutches of archer thighs and could therefore escape. If he was really stealthy. Like a ninja. He turns around and sprints for the edge of the building.

He’s just experiencing the first vestiges of the free fall that he lives for when his body is once again slammed into a hard surface. This time it is the brick wall of the building. Hawkeye has grabbed onto his ankle at the last second and is now hauling him up by said appendage.

Stupid Hawkeye with his stupid reflexes.

He is just about to web him again when his vision goes a little blurry. He's really pushing his limits today; body says no. 

His momentary distraction allows Hawkeye to once again pull the other's wrists behind his back, this time clasped inwards with the shooters facing each other and therefore blocked by his hands.

“I’d really like to leave.”

“I can see that.”

Peter lets out a growl of frustration and that he’s tired of trying to escape. 

He’s obviously not going anywhere.

The archer puts a single finger to his ear and Peter notices a tiny device. A little red light appears at the touch.

“Tash? You done cleaning up all the helpless puppies on the ground?”

There is a brief minute of static before a female voice that must belong to the Black Widow replies. Luckily being genetically modified has its advantages, and Peter can make sense of both sides of the conversation.

“They’re monkeys. And yes. Status report.”

“I’m up here with Spider-man. He’s bleeding out despite my best efforts. ETA?”

“Two minutes.”

“Where are Stark and Rogers?”

“Arguing.”

“They’ll wanna see this.”

They both sound a bit like robots with how calm they are. Hawkeye admittedly less so, as there is something in his voice that Peter is tempted to identify as humour. Which is silly, because there is absolutely nothing funny about Peter’s really bad, no good day.

“What’s your condition?”

“Not a scratch on me. Spider-kid pulled me from the action before I could get any battle-scars.”

The Widow is silent after this and Peter begins to think that the radio signal has been cut off when the Widow herself is standing in front of him. Literally. Peter doesn't remember blinking. She is prettier than Peter thought. And a red-head. Huh.

“He is a child.”

“Hey!”

“What do we do?”

“Let shield deal with him.”

“Who’s shield? Captain America’s shield? Thanks but no” Peter says, feeling distinctly left out of the conversation. Also like he's going to end up with a pretty intense concussion at the end of this little chat, which will go just great with his other two major injuries. Although his throat is already starting to feel better. It's just his side that is giving him issues.

The two Avengers in front of him continue to ignore him. They also seem to have switched to a silent means of communication.

“No.” Widow stares down Hawkeye with much more ferocity than Peter has ever been able to scrounge up. Hawkeye is still standing behind him, holding Peter's hands together. The archer doesn’t so much as flinch.

“He needs the help. In more ways than one. And I owe him. We pay our debts Tash.”

“He’s too young.”

Peter gets the feeling that they are talking about more than just patching him up.

“How old were you?”

This earns Hawkeye an exceptionally lethal look that kinda makes Peter want to leave the building again. Or the city.

They start up their silent conversation once more, which Peter gets bored of real quick. He questions whether a quick nap would make this human sandwich any more appealing to wake up to. Probably not. And he won't be mentioning sandwiches anywhere within Widow's hearing. He likes living, thanks.

He's just about to give some input into the coversation when he sees the little specks of black interfering with his vision that mean he doesn’t have long until he clocks. His body has had enough of his ridiculousness. So really, he's not getting a choice here anyway. 

Even spidey healing has its limits.

As he feels himself slumping forward he hears a resigned ‘Fine.’ before there’s a nice numb feeling and his mind goes blank.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter wakes up. He doesn't feel any better. 

He is as fluffy and disoriented as he always is when he wakes up, but with more stickiness and general pain involved. Which would be just his luck. He also finds that he is floating through a dark street strewn with what look like monkeys. 

Oh, riiiight.

Excellent. He is waking up in the mess that he left himself in when he decided to faint. Like an anemic child. In front of Hawkeye and Widow. Could this night get any better? Really?

Also, not floating, but being carried.

“Congratulations.” the voice above him says. “You managed to stay out for about ten minutes. I’m sure you’re all better now.”

Oh ugh. He’s being carried by Hawkeye like a damn baby.

“I can walk!”

“Ah okay, I’m so sorry. Let me just put you do - yeah right. I don't think so. I’m carrying you in case you trip and break both your legs on a pebble.”

Peter snorts but doesn’t move to escape. His mask has magically re-appeared on his face, which gives him good feelings, and Widow is shooting eye-daggers from her stealth position behind archer-man. Supposedly Hawkeye is the safer bet at the moment, since he ‘owes’ him and all. And he’s warm and stuff.

The two of them, and Peter by default, seem to be headed towards monkey central, where Ironman and Captain America are standing over the bodies of about two hundred little fluff balls. Peter sincerely hopes that they’re all simply unconscious rather than, you know, dead. He has empathy for the little dudes, alright? They have certain… similarities.

Ironman has his face plate down and Peter can see that it is indeed Tony Stark behind all that metal. Huh. So it wasn’t a publicity stunt after all. The dude actually is Ironman. He’s still together with Captain America, who has also used the down-time to take off his mask. Er, helmet. Mask-helmet. And what the hell, the dude could and should be an underwear model or something. He is preposterous. In that way that annoyingly attractive people are.

They both turn as their little threesome approaches. They also both frown when they notice the bundle that is Peter in Hawkeye’s arms.

Captain America steps forward to get a better look but archer-dude doesn’t put Peter down.

“Hawkeye report.” The Captain’s voice is surprisingly gentle.

“We’re fine, Spiderman’s not. Nice to see you too.” Hawkeye sounds a little bit grumbly, but he straightens up under the Captain's scrutiny. Peter has intimate knowledge of this. The muscles under him shift.

“Why are you carrying him?”

“He keeps trying to run off somewhere but he’s out of gas. Woke up from a dead faint about a minute ago. He’s been bleeding for a good while now, even through the basic field first-aid that I managed. The kid weighs about as much as a toothpick.”  
'  


The Captain’s eyes halt their inspection of Peter’s injuries and harden a fraction. “Define kid.”

“Can’t. He hasn’t said.”

All-American gets this broody look on his face that Peter doesn’t like. 

Tony Stark, in contrast, seems a lot happier to see Spiderman.

“Hey, you’re that vigilante that’s been jumping around the city for a year or two! Why haven’t we met you yet? Or more accurately, why haven’t I met you yet? I know all the interesting people in this city.” Yep, Peter thinks. That’s Tony Stark alright.

“I also happened to see you on the news just before we got here. JARVIS thought it necessary to show me your epic fail of a swing into the Morison building. What’re you doing getting flung around like that you rookie?”

“Oh yes, I just go around getting smashed into concrete structures because I enjoy it.” Peter’s reply is a little snarky.

“Oh sass. I like this one.”

“Tony.” The Captain has got this kind of resigned tone half-way between a sigh and a reprimand.

“Tch, fine. We’ll grill him later. But don’t let him go. I have questions. So many questions.”

Peter makes flaily motions with his hands at Stark. "Uhm, no thank-you? How about we all forget everything. This is not the drone you are looking for."

Captain America's face is hilariously confused. "Oi Hawkeye, make sure he sticks around - wouldn't want him to wonder off now would we." Hawkeye eyes Stark with what looks like indignation as his hold on Peter tightens.

"He's still here isn't he?" Hawkeye mutters, somewhat indignantly. 

“Not for lack of trying,” Peter mumbles, frustrated with himself again.

“What’s our evac Tony?” All-America has his eyes scanning the sky for some reason. Peter’s sure that all the Spider-monkeys have been dealt with, so what is the dude looking for?

“Well, I’m sure you could run home and make it there before us Cap.” Okaaay, so obviously the Captain’s muscles serve more than one purpose. Good information for Peter to know when he’s planning yet another escape attempt for later. Is it still a hostage situation if he knows that these people probably won’t hurt him?

Yep. It is. Peter says it is.

Captain America sighs and makes a vague hand movement towards Peter.

“Oh right. Well, Happy’s around, he could probably drive us?”

They march as a group onto a street corner that isn’t strewn with fluffy limbs and arrive just as a black limo pulls up onto the curb. Which is ridiculous.

“This is ridiculous!”

“What?” Ironman looks at him with genuine bewilderment. Peter couldn’t have been more put off if the vehicle was a van with tinted windows. This kind of money didn’t belong anywhere close to Peter. He feels uncomfortable around it. The others are already piling in.

As he is still under the direct control of Hawkeye, Peter is also thrown unceremoniously onto the backseat of the limo. Which is unsurprisingly plushy. The guy plops down beside him and slams the door shut.

“Wait a second! There’s no candy in here you liar!”

“I don’t remember promising candy.” Huh, Stark is actually pretty funny when he's not being super rich and famous.

The rest of the group all stare at him. Which is understandable, since he is the black sheep of the limo. Okay, no, not understandable. The people in this vehicle are just as weird as he is. And to reinforce that, apparently none of them feel the need to blink. Which Peter is doing nervously under his mask as his gaze twitches from one face to another.

He turns to see that Hawkeye is making a peculiar face whilst pretending not to stare at him. Courteous of him. Mr Stark is making what looks to be a martini for himself from the mini bar. He’s also chatting to the driver, who Peter remembers is called Happy, about his work as head of security for SI. Probably stands for Stark Industries. Peter can be smart and detective-y. 

Stark manages to do both things at once while still swivelling his eyes over to Peter every ten seconds. Widow and Steve are staring at him with an intensity that makes him appreciate his spot on the opposite side of the limousine. Creepy.

It’s an uncomfortable drive.

 

 

 

 

If the appearance of a limousine had made Peter feel uncomfortable, the image of the Stark tower makes him want to hide under a very large, immoveable rock for the foreseeable future. Which is really all he's wanted to do since meeting the Avengers. Again, this isn't going anything like he had planned.

He’s the kind of person to admire from afar. Half the reason why these people are heroes to him, and everyone else in the world, is because of how potentially dangerous they are. 

So yes, Peter would like his space please and thankyou.

On top of this, he knows that Hawkeye and Widow are probably going to reveal him like a specialty dessert once they get inside the building. Peter supposes that they’re nice enough to wait to do this until they are out of the prying eyes of the public, but he still doesn’t want it to happen.

Peter needs to be Spiderman around these people, not Peter Parker, who is basically an orphan with a dead girlfriend and a violent psychotic for a best friend. And who also still lives with his Aunt. The cringe he gets from this is full-bodied. And uncomfortably obvious. 

He has been working on moving out, since a sure way to protect May would be to stay away from her as much as possible, but vigilante work isn’t exactly well-paid. In the sense that he doesn't get paid at all. His spiderman selfies have been making him a bit of money, but not nearly enough to pay for rent. He’ll figure something out. 

As he glances up and out of his thoughts Peter finds that they (the Avengers and him, what the heck is going on) are in what appears to be a basement. It’s probably just Mr. Stark’s garage though. It’s pretty sparkly and humongous for a basement. Also, it's filled with luxury cars and other suspicious looking vehicles that Peter can’t quite identify, but has an irrational itch to drive. He’d figure them out pretty quick. Probably. But.... expensive. It would take at least three or four of Peter’s lifetimes to pay back the cost of one of those monsters. So maybe not.

Suddenly everyone is piling out of the limo just as quickly as they had piled in, and Hawkeye is man-handling him outside. By which Peter means that the dude picks him up again like he’s no more than an irritable corgi. With long, unwieldy limbs. Hehe, interesting image there.

“Honey we’re home!” Who the hell is Stark talking to?

“Yes, sir, I detected your presence upon your arrival, as I do every time you exit or enter the building. According to my scans, there is an extra body among your company that I am not familiar with. Would you care to update my systems?”

“Oh right. Jarvis, Spiderman. Spiderman, Jarvis.”

“You installed an A.I. into your building?” Peter didn’t think that was even possible. Apparently there are no boundaries when there is a Stark involved.

“Well now you’re just being a downer. I had this whole spiel planned that I go over whenever there’s someone new in the building. A spiel which you have ruined with being a big know-it-all, I might add!”

“Who’s the real big freaking know-it-all here,” Hawkeye asks in what sounds like innocent query, but is ruined by the smirk.

“Oh suck it up Legolas. You live under my roof, you deal with my genius.”

“Kiss my ass Stark.”

Tony blows him a very mature raspberry and starts heading towards the lift. Their little rag-tag group follows. Peter thinks that there are too many floors to choose from in the elevator. If he were to press all of the buttons available, he could strand someone in here for at least an hour.

He quickly takes back this statement in his head as the little box bullets towards the top floor. He also tightens his hands around Hawkeye’s biceps (which are really nice) in alarm. No one else in the elevator looks fazed though, and Hawkeye’s smirk from before is now turned towards him. Peter wants to stick his tongue out. Too bad about the latex.

As they enter what can only be a lounge room, but is at least twice the size of Peter’s house, Peter notices a man sprawled out on one of the recliners, asleep. He is scruffy and kind of old, and his glasses are askew.

“Bruce. Hey Bruce!” Tony Stark has a hand on the dude’s arm and gives it a single shake before taking several steps backwards.

“Wha, oh.” The poor guy starts and almost falls out of the chair. He somehow manages to get his feet under him and is standing before anyone can step in to help.

“What? You don’t like the multiple beds I had set out for you to sleep in? You choose the couch instead? Really?” Stark pouts.

“Ah, no. I was… I guess I was waiting for all of you to get back.”

Stark sighs and goes to sit down on the recently vacated couch. Widow stalks over to a clear area on the floor and begins stretching in ways that Peter thinks even he couldn’t manage. Captain America stands stock still beside Hawkeye, and is still staring at him, although at least he’s trying to be polite about it now. Hawkeye himself looks like he wants to hand Peter off to someone, at least so that his hands are free. He's a bit tense.

“I’m glad you all seem alright.” Scruffy guy is walking towards him and the other two. His attention seems to have snagged on Peter. Surprise, surprise.

“What’s going on?”

“Bruce, this is Spiderman. I’ve been informed that he’s been injured. We have a duty of care to see him patched up before we send him on his way. Do you think you could take a look?” Typical Captain America politeness. He’s nice even to strangers. Which Peter definitely is to all of these people. So why are they trying to help? In fact, why did they bring him into their home base? This is so suss.

“This is Spiderman? I mean, the spandex sort of gives it away, but…”

As he is turning the word ‘Bruce’ around in his head, it finally clicks for Peter where he has heard the name before. 

“Well, you don’t look much like the Hulk, so you know, there's that.”

“Touché.” Okay, so the dude is a lot calmer than Peter was lead to believe. Plus on top of having the mad skills of being mean and green, the dude was also really, really smart.

“Your work in nuclear physics is meant to be extraordinary. I’ve read some of your stuff, and it’s pretty cool. Also a little bit scary though. You still doing that stuff?”

“Oh! I guess my research into that is a little old now. I haven’t really been looking into it that much of late. I am more interested in genetic engineering and its practical uses in the possibility of achieving reverse mutations. But thanks.”

“That sounds really awesome! And I might be able to help with…” Peter catches himself before he gets too excited. He doesn’t want to stick around these people, remember? Or, well, he really, really does… but shouldn’t.

Stark cranes his neck from his spot on the couch. Peter takes a moment to think how oddly trimmed the man’s beard is. Is it a goatee? Is it a moustache? No, it’s both!

“So Spidey has some science up in that scrambled mug of his! We should definitely keep him around, I might get some actual intellectual conversation out of him.” Peter understands why some people might find Stark a little obnoxious.

“Can we all please just focus on the matter at hand?” Captain America once again makes a hand gesture towards Peter. Peter may or may not be dripping blood on Tony Stark, the Billionaire,'s floor.

How is Peter still even bleeding? Surely it should have stopped by now. He thinks that his other injuries have finished regenerating, so it’s probably pretty bad that this one is being annoyingly stubborn.

“Let’s take a look then shall we Spiderman?” Mr Banner is in Peter’s personal bubble. He’s not happy about it. Which means a lot more wriggling against the arms that still hold him like he’s a child. He’s not a child!

Hawkeye is grabbing at him as he's clambering over the guy's shoulders. The Avengers seem to have forgotten that he actually has some abilities too. He takes full advantage. His spider grip means that he can climb archer dude like a tree. And not in the sexy way.

“Will you stop?” Hawkeye is not happy. Join the club buddy.

The guy who turns into the Hulk when he gets angry has taken a few steps back. Which is a relief. Peter stops struggling again. Maybe they’re learning that certain actions are going to cause certain reactions. Peter hopes so. He’s tiring at an alarming rate, and he knows he needs to be patched up. He just needs it to be in a calm, anxiety free environment that includes optional super-secret-identity masks. 

Has no one seen the incredibles?

He knows that he’s probably gonna get turned down, but he turns to the guy above him.

“Could you ah, do me a solid and stitch me up so I can go home? You know, just you, and not any of the others in this room? I like your face better, or something.” 

What? He’s tired and that’s the best excuse he can come up with, thanks very much.

“I’m not exactly a doctor…” Hawkeye begins before trailing off into his own thoughts.

Peter is suddenly intimately aware how laughable it is that he is demanding anything of these people. He doubts that he could take on any of these metaphorical and physical giants. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could on a good day. They all have an almost unheard of musculature. It’s extremely obvious in both Hawkeye and the Captain over there, Widow just plain terrifies him and even Tony has annoying biceps from what Peter assumes must be all his mechanicy stuff. It’s an irony that the only one that Peter viewed as originally being harmless turns into the hulk in his spare time. Peter always had been a good judge of character.

Hawkeye’s giving him shifty looks like he knows what he’s doing in asking him for help, but ultimately, to Peter’s unending surprise, shrugs and lifts an eyebrow at blondey. The Captain is running his hand through his perfect hair and looking like he could do with some more information. The blood on the floor seems to convince him though, and he gives a few nods before moving to stand next to Bruce.

“You’ll come get us if you can’t deal with it. Take him to the med bay, you know where everything is.”

"Yeah, coz he basically lives there himself!" Stark yells from across the room where he's pouring himself a drink. 

If Peter chooses not to think too deeply on that statement. If he were standing, he would bow to each of the room’s occupants. Since he’s not, he simply gives a weak salute while he is exiting the room in the floaty way that he has come to enjoy.

Spiderman shall have to travel by means of Hawkeye again sometime, preferably when he’s not so freakin panicked.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Clint has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.

He has a warm body in his arms and Spiderman is not who he’s supposed to be. The few briefings that he’s had with SHIELD about the vigilante had left him with the basic instruction to avoid spiderman until more recon could be compiled. Obviously that’s not going to happen. Clint barely knows the kid and already he gets that he’s not a danger to anyone but himself. 

Spiderman seems world weary and burdened in a way that Clint is uncomfortably familiar with. The kid reminds him of his younger self in a weird way. He has power over himself and others, but he doesn’t have the necessary experience for what they do yet. Because being a superhero can be pretty shitty sometimes. Clint personally knows how much this job can fuck with your head. Not that he thinks that the kid has made stupid decisions; he seems abnormally smart. Clint just knows how it can be when you’re on your own.

So yes, he has already developed a little bit of a protective streak despite knowing the teenager for all of an hour. That doesn’t mean that he’s comfortable being blindsided by strange feelings of attachment. 

He’s also a little uncomfortable as to how easily he maintained physical contact with the kid. It’s something that Clint usually shies away from unless Tash is around. She’s pretty much his sister by now so there’s not really any point in trying to get out of that one. But he definitely needs to put this kid down before he tries to adopt him or something from prolonged physical contact. The snarkiness towards Stark alone has labelled him as good people in Clint's books.

He makes it through the door of the medical room that Stark randomly has in his house – a bit concerning really – and lays the kid on the table. He then turns and starts rifling through cupboards.

The kid is still speaking. Clint remembers warning him about giving the throat a rest. Huh, looks like he's gonna regret not pulling that punch for a while. “Hey, I, uh, just wanted to… you know, say thanks. For back there. You didn’t have to, but it would have sucked to try and escape. As you proved many times in the past three hours.”

Clint raises an eyebrow at this. Feels like he’s been doing that a lot since he met spiderman. "Don't lie to me kid. You're still gonna try and escape. It's what I would do.”

“Okay, yeah, but I was gonna be subtle about it!”

“You're about as subtle as a brick to the face. We’ve all figured out that you’d rather not be here. Why do you think it’s just me in the room, huh?”

“Oh.”

Spiderkid seems to be weighing that in his head a bit, looking like he still doesn’t believe that people actually provide help sometimes. Does he think that they are all gonna let him loose on the street oozing out his innards? Aint gonna happen. Clint will be damned if he doesn’t help the kid somehow now that he knows that the teen deals with the shitstorm that is his life completely alone. The stuff he’s read up on in Spiderman’s file isn’t exactly pretty. No wonder he’s so suspicious of everyone around him. He hasn’t been given a warm welcome as Spiderman… ever really.

Clint finds what he’s looking for in the last cupboard he searches as per usual. He still hasn't figured out how this place works - Stark tower is a bit of an anomaly, and it's not like he spends a lot of time here. He takes the bundle over to a little silver wheelie table and shows the kid the scissors he has in his hand. No need to unnecessarily startle him when he’s cutting his clothes off. Again.

The kid, who had previously been sitting up on his elbows to watch Clint’s movements, loudly blows out his breath and thumps back onto the medical stretcher.

If Clint hadn’t spent so much of his life in an archery range to gain his musclulature he might have trouble cutting through the spandex. It’s surprisingly tough. Which makes the fact that the kid still managed to get cut up a little bit more concerning.

As he’s peeling it off there’s a distressed humming noise like the teen is more worried about his costume than his injuries. Clint flicks him on the nose and he quiets down.

“I’m sure Stark can make you another one. New and improved and all. Add some blue in there and you might be just as spangly as Cap.”

“Sorry, it’s just that this one took me forever to finish.”

The kid makes his own suits? How very… domestic of him. But it makes sense. If he’s alone who else is gonna do that stuff? Clint is suddenly very thankful for SHIELD - a thought that hasn’t crossed his mind since Loki.

He distracts himself abruptly by focusing on the mild gore in front of him. It’s a tactic that has worked for him in the past… Although granted, it’s usually his own injury and not someone else’s. He's been told by psychiatrists that focusing on goriness as a distraction is usually the opposite of what normal people do, but Clint's not exactly normal. He has different coping mechanisms.

It’s a really odd wound. Clint thinks he remembers the kid being a lot more injured than this when he was a random guy in a spider-suit on a rooftop. Which means that some serious healing has gone on in the last forty minutes.

“So what’s your deal?”

Spiderkid has obviously been studiously ignoring Clint’s doings because he startles at his voice. Clint has a hard time reading his expression through the mask, but his body language is broadcasting his rising hackles pretty clearly.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He’s bristling and Clint wants to soothe him, but thinks that it might come off a bit creepy. Especially since the kid isn’t wearing a shirt. Coz’ he cut it off.

“No, no, I just wanna know what makes you spiderman. What’re your abilities? I know about the heightened agility and strength, and wall climbing bit, though I don’t get how you’re doing that. Why are your wounds healing so quick? And, more specifically, why isn’t this one magically all better?”

“Oh, well I basically have adopted some spider genetics. I can heal pretty fast along with the other stuff you mentioned. So yeah, that wound should be gone. But it’s not.”

“We’re definitely going into greater detail than that later. But I’m gonna have a little look-see alright?”

His slap-on first-aid from before is still holding up, but barely. It's stained red, and as he peels it slowly back the kid hisses, obviously in pain.

“I’m just gonna get rid of this sucker like a bandaid okay?”

He’s nodding, so Clint takes a breath and gives a sharp tug. This is not good. Clint has seen enough in his life that there’s not much that phases him anymore. He can tell that this is not going to be the easy fix that he was hoping it was going to be. 'Chuck a few stitches in and you’re good to go!' kind of easy would have been preferable.

He sees something shiny poking out of it and gently runs his finger over it. It’s a glass shard. It looks like there’s plenty more where that’s come from. The kid’s movements have been breaking the glass into smaller and smaller pieces and each piece has taken further opportunities to slide in deeper. They are cutting up his insides. Clint's basic first-aid training is not going to help here. He doesn’t want to hurt the kid further by messing up either. 

“Oh fuck this, I’m getting Bruce.”

He’s kinda glad that he put the kid’s mask back on because he doesn’t think he can handle the puppy eyes that are probably under there. 

He escapes the room before spiderman can say anything to stop him.

 

 

 

 

Bruce is in the living room, feeling a little bit left out. Not an unfamiliar feeling, he admits, but his teammates are acting decidedly odd. Except for Tony that is, who seems to be able to take anything in stride and still act obnoxiously confident. He certainly wasn’t fazed by the Hulk, so again, this doesn’t surprise Bruce in the least.

Steve is still in the living room brooding. It's the face that Bruce has labelled "I'm not pleased with something" or "this isn't adding up." He knows that Steve can sit and agonize over facts for a distressing period of time. He’s firm on his decision once it’s made though.

Natasha has finished her stretches and is now on her feet and staring at a pillow. She’s unnaturally still and her gaze is one that Bruce would prefer never to be turned on him. He can't judge her on this behaviour solely as it is fairly common for Natasha to be staring at something/someone menacingly, but something still feels off to him.

Clint had also been acting strange in his own way. Bruce was surprised to find that he was the one physically carrying the mystery man around, as the archer usually participated from the furthest distance possible.

Luckily for him, Bruce is really good at reading body language or he would not know any of this information.

What Bruce does know is that there is an injured person in the house whom he isn’t allowed to treat, who is also the vigilante known as Spiderman. A person that, to his understanding, does not have a great reputation. But, then again, neither does he, so he's not going to jump to any conclusions. What he doesn’t know is why Spiderman is causing the team to react the way that they are.

He’s still metaphorically and physically scratching his head (he should probably use some sort of hair product soon) when Clint enters the room with a look of concern on his face. Spiderman isn’t with him, so Bruce immediately begins striding towards the door. Clint simply turns and they both leave the room.

Upon entering the med bay, Bruce finds that Clint has removed the spandex from Spiderman’s torso by cutting it away. It has left Spiderman with some interesting looking sleeves, but also given direct access to the wound. Bruce immediately determines the problem that Clint encountered.

The wound is awash with glass shards. Glass shards which need to be pulled out if the injury has any chance of healing. That procedure is going to be extremely painful for Spiderman.  
He finds himself reaching for the general anaesthesia mask before he’s registered that there’s a different kind of mask obstructing his access.

“I’m sorry but you’ll have to take that off.”

For some reason Clint has started circling the upright stretcher. Spiderman’s chest has begun heaving in a way that is indicative of panic. That's distressing. Bruce doesn’t really want any more strain on the wound.

Just as the man makes to jump off the table, Clint tackles him from the position he had slid into above his head. Bruce notices that it is an area just at the edge of Spiderman’s peripheral vision, a place where he couldn't possibly have seen him coming. He is pinning his shoulders to the gurney, and Bruce takes the opportunity to pull the spandex mask off to replace it with the anaesthetic gas mask.

Bruce frowns as the patient continues to buck, despite the large quantities of numbing agent being pumped into him. He really ought be unconscious by now.

“You’re gonna need more than that doc,” Clint grunts as he tightens his hold on the convulsing body beneath him. Normally Bruce would diagnose this reaction as a seizure, but realises that the bucking is Spiderman attempting to escape. Which doesn’t make any sense.

“What quantity do you suggest?”

“How much do you normally give Steve?”

Bruce can feel the wrinkle between his eyebrows as his frown deepens. Did this person get injected with some variation of the serum? He thought it had all been destroyed - gone for good. 

But now wasn’t the time to be thinking on that. While a full medical report would have been greatly appreciated, it wasn’t going to happen. Bruce’s only option was to up the dosage into an area he wasn’t entirely comfortable with, but which also, as it turned out, did the job.

As the spasms die out, Bruce lets out a sigh and finally takes a moment to glance at Spiderman’s face. 

Spiderman looks like he’s barely out of his teens. 

Normally, Bruce would shrug at this. People joined the army and the air force and the marines at eighteen these days. But he knows for a fact that spiderman has been around for at least two years, maybe more. And that he had not ever received any kind of formal training before being thrown into the line of fire. Or throwing himself out more accurately. Without backup. And that… that Bruce doesn’t like.

“Yep. It’s pretty fucked.” Clint has taken a few steps back, giving some room for Bruce to work.

His only answer is to grab the pliers off the table and begin pulling shards out as gently as possible. It’s tedious and bloody and takes him quite a while. He has to dig deep to find the more embedded ones. 

When he’s done he stitches the wound back up and bandages the whole of Spiderman’s lower torso. Which should hopefully keep all of him where it’s supposed to be. He then disconnects the anaesthetic mask, since he’s already got enough of the stuff in his bloodstream to kill a normal person, and hooks up an IV drip. With any luck Spiderman’s healing abilities will be capable of replenishing the disturbing amount of blood that he has lost. He could probably do with all the help he can get. It is this thought that has Bruce rubbing his face a few times as he realises how true that statement is. 

“We’re going to have to inform the others. We can’t let this continue.”

“The kid’s not gonna like it.”

“He’ll be unconscious for at least another hour. Best to do it now. JARVIS, could you please call the team down here?”

“Of course Doctor Banner.” The AI’s voice is unusually solemn. Bruce has always liked JARVIS. He is, in Bruce’s opinion, Tony’s greatest creation.

He finds himself hovering over Spiderman right along with Clint when both Steve and Tony burst into the room, looking like they are expecting a battle.

“What? What is it? Do I need to call SHIELD? Coz I’d really prefer not to do that. Nothing good ever comes when SHIELD is involved. They’re all lying liars. For the good of the public my a…” Tony trails off as his eyes catch on Spiderman. Steve hasn’t said anything at all.

They all stand around the gurney and stare at the body on it. They are quiet for longer than Bruce has ever seen them together, with one exception. Spiderman has no shortage of scars on the skin that they can see. Bruce identifies stab wounds, burn marks and at least two areas where he’s been shot. Today’s injury will add to the collection.

Steve has materialised next to Clint and moves to touch Spiderman’s shoulder, where there is a patch of pink skin which Bruce supposes is a newly healed cut. His healing ability is strikingly similar to Steve's, albiet slower and not without its consequences. Bruce supposes that the scars attest to that. Spiderman flies awake at Steve's touch. A moment ago he had been knocked out, and it takes him less than a second to spring to the other side of the room and stick himself halfway up the wall. Bruce would have previously claimed that the likelihood of that happening was less than nil. In fact, he had been generous when he had given spiderman an hour of unconsciousness.

Everyone in the room is understandably staring. Spiderman looks teary and scared, which is a bit gut-wrenching. 

Clint is the first of them to break the spell and chooses to put himself between spiderman and the door. They can all hear the harsh breathing and the tremors.

“Whoa kid, we’re not gonna hurt you.” Tony has taken on the soothing tone that Bruce has only ever heard him use on an unstable Hulk. And one overheard conversation with Pepper. He's not sure how any of them are around kids or young people, because no parent has ever been crazy enough to let their children play with or hang around the Avengers. At least as far as he is aware.

Spiderman has angled his body in the opposite direction of Clint’s block. Which, as his doctor, Bruce doesn't approve of. He then somehow manages to repeat the trick from before and jump from one end of the room to the other. He proceeds to snap off the hinges of the only window in the room. They are on the fifty-second floor. There's no way he would... Steve and Tony both shout as the young man launches himself out into the dark. Bruce stares in shock, feeling a certain presence begin to make its way to front of his mind. He fumbles his way towards the window and stares. Which is how he manages to spot spiderman somehow swinging behind a building across the street.

Well. That wasn’t good for his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

Three days later and the Avengers still don’t know what to do about the recently revealed spiderman. Or, more accurately, Steve and Tony are still arguing about what to do with the kid. 

Tony’s plan involves a retrieval by Thor (whenever the God decides to turn up) and possibly an actual retriever. Supposedly dogs fix all problems. Clint not gonna argue that one. In his experience, dogs do, in fact, solve a majority of problems. Steve’s issue in this is the whole kidnapping aspect. Clint has to give it to Stark that at least it would have been well-intended kidnapping. Captain America’s plan rides on calm-mannered patience and other such things that Clint has strategically decided to ignore.

As such, he is currently crouched on the rooftop of a media company that he really doesn’t like. The media company that is; the rooftop is perfectly sturdy. Much better than some other unmentionable surfaces that he has camped on for long periods at a time.

It had taken Stark all of an hour after the kid had left (see: thrown himself out a window) to identify spiderman as Peter Parker with his fancy facial recognition program that had recently been installed into JARVIS’s mainframe. The time after that was spent formulating plans that someone always had objections to. Stark turned down almost all of Steve’s suggestions, Steve found the holes in his, and Nat would completely blow apart any plans that they could both agree on.

So yes. Clint’s gonna do this his way.

He knows the kid is in the building. He saw him go in twenty minutes ago, which had been goddamn relief because he had no other way to contact him, with the exception of dropping by his home. For all that Clint is, or perhaps was, a government sanctioned badass and spy on occasion, he doesn’t really want to jump the kid in his own home. It's not like he's done anything wrong.

Everybody needs their safe space. Plus; he would prefer the kid to not freak out and run again. 

He tries not to be a dick on purpose. 

(That is a lie, he does it on purpose... sometimes).

The whole idea not to scare the kid away is why Natasha is sitting in the tower and Clint gets the rooftop. She’s most likely scowling at a wall, contemplating how she’s gonna make him suffer for this. In the friendliest way she knows how. The idea of this still has Clint inwardly cringing.

He’s been staring straight down at the entrance of the building for not only the last twenty minutes since Spiderkid showed up, but the three hours before that. He almost feels like he should have a sniper rifle, or at least his bow, but he has came unarmed on purpose today. Spreading the good will and all that.

He’s glad that it’s dark out because when the kid steps out he can freely use his mad parkour skills to scale down the side of the building without rousing suspicion. Cap has told him again and again that the poor ‘citizens’ don’t like it when he’s throwing around his ‘safety’ all willy nilly like that.

He can’t wait until Spidey’s on the team, coz he’ll love that shit. Extreme parkour all the way. And Clint knows that Peter will eventually end up on the team – there’s no other way that this is gonna play out that Clint is happy with. So he’s gonna make it happen.

Oop, there he is. Clint waits for him to make his way towards the building he's stationed on before he starts his downward descent. Clint lets himself fall the last two metres and tucks his body into a roll that he knows will finish with him standing in Peter’s space. This turns out to be handy, because the kid had spotted him coming down, and had started the movement that Clint has now recognised as his fight or flight responsonse. 

So. According to the last four occasions, Spiderman usually meets possible friendlies with flight. 

The kid definitely had messed up priorities. Who runs away from help?

Bursting the personal space bubble gives Clint the opportunity to grab and drag Spidey into an alleyway. The kid does have good reflexes however, even without any skill, and Clint ends up with an elbow in his face despite his advanced martial arts training. Of which the kid has none. Nat would be ashamed of him.

“Gah, kid, what the fuck!”

“Oh I’m sorry that I elbowed you while you were DRAGGING ME INTO A DARK, DANK ALLEY!”  


Kid has a point.

“Look, I’m not gonna hurt you. Nobody on the Avengers is gonna hurt ya. Except maybe Tash. But she’s like that with everyone, don’t stress.”

“YOU PUNCHED ME IN THE THROAT!”

“I said sorry? And you were okay with it yesterday,” Clint points out. "I was suffering from severe blood loss and have since changed my mind!" 

"Well... my bad?"

The kid, Peter, throws his hands in the air and makes to stomp away. Not happening.

“Look, that isn’t why I’m here. Why are you so afraid of us? We can help you. You might even end up living into your thirties.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then what is it, huh? You go around looking for trouble every day. But you can’t handle getting throat-punched once? And from a guy who then helped you out later?”

The kid’s nose is all scrunched up and his expression has closed off. Not a good sign. Body language is now saying ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ But Clint’s always been a pusher, and annoying as hell when he wants to be.

“What, we intimidate you? You were embarrassed? You have some secret desire to murder Stark in his sleep for something that he can’t remember doing? Because that last one wouldn’t surprise me. Guy can be a dick.”

“No! No, okay!? Ironman’s cool and stuff.”

Clint groans but feels his lips quirking upwards. “Please don’t tell him that. I might be smothered by his ego one of these days. I like my breathing space.”

“Yeah, about that. I noticed you were kind of standoffish when I, you know, grabbed you, kinda, and you reacted… the way that you did. Why are you cool being so close? Coz’ you are definitely popping my bubble right now. And everything I’ve ever read and seen about you says you like to keep your distance.”

Huh. So the kid had done his research. Come to think of it, he did have the whole ‘I’m a cute nerd’ thing going on when he wasn’t wearing the mask. Today he has glasses and his bed hair is kind of hilarious. Especially since it’s nine o’clock at night and the kid must have had it like that for the day. It’s… fluffy. Clint always did have a weakness for furry animals.

He realises that he still hasn’t answered the kid’s question, and rides the silence for a bit longer. Clint can begrudgingly admit that SHIELD interrogation tactics come in handy sometimes.

The kid seems twitchy and keeps glancing out towards the street. He’s about ready to climb the walls with the nervous gestures shooting out of him, and Clint bets he would if he had his costume on.

“Do you want to go somewhere more… solitary? Scouts honour that your safety will be ensured.”

Surprisingly, the kid immediately nods his head. Maybe he trusts Clint more that he thought.

They, being Hawkeye and Spiderman, immediately head to the roof that Clint had used for surveillance. He has remembered the handholds he used getting down, so it doesn’t take much effort to climb the side of the building. Throwing his feet over the top ledge, Clint makes to throw a rope down to help the kid out and lets out a surprised laugh when spiderman simply crawls up on the tips of his fingers and his toes. He takes a few steps back as the kid reaches the top where he uses the muscles in his arms to launch into the air, curling his body into a flip which he lands right on the edge of the building.

“Now you’re just showing off.” 

The kid simply shrugs and settles back to sit down with his back facing the street and a normally death-ensuring fall. His eyes are cast downward and he fiddles with the laces of his converses as he chews on his bottom lip.

“So. Now that you’re all better, I think it’s time we talked.”

“Yup.” 

“What’s with all the Houdini-ing?”

“I wear a mask for a reason.”

“And what would that be?”

“… People who know me usually end up dead.”

“So you think that you’re mask is protecting people.”

“I only have one person left to protect. It was easier. Now you all know, so I got to look out for you guys as well.”

Clint doesn’t agree with this, they’re freaking super heroes. But he does let the kid continue. Better to let it all out in the open.

“I can’t be in seven different places at once. Plus the more I know you, the more the bad guys can get out of me, which also wouldn’t be good for you guys. So forgive me if I didn’t want you to help me… or know me.”

“Well, tough luck. It’s done. What’re you gonna do now?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, Imma tell you then. You are gonna let us help you. You’re gonna train with us, use our facilities, get Stark to take a look at that costume because I don’t like how thin it is. Not good for fighting or modesty. You should also really talk to Tash about that, she loves skin-suits. For different reasons though. You will eat meals with us (Clint’s concerned okay? Kid could do with a few more meals a day) and generally be around us whenever we are hanging out as the Avengers.”

“I’m not going to move in.”

“Who said anything about that? It’s not like we live at Stark Tower or anything. We just... are there sometimes.”

“Then where do you live?”

Right, Clint doesn’t really ‘live’ anywhere after the whole Loki catastrophe… but he does inhabit some easily defendable crawl spaces in the giant floating castle that is the helicarrier. Clint swears Fury somehow pulls money out of his ass; it’s the only explanation to where their funds come from.

“Top secret flying spy facility. I’ll show you later.”

“I, uh, don’t think that you’re really getting the meaning of the word ‘secret’…”

“I understand just fine. It’s bullshit, don’t worry about it.”

“This is my worried face.” The kid does seem to have a bit of a grimace going on. Although it’s hard to tell since Clint hasn’t really seen any other expressions with the exception of ‘I’m in pain’ and ‘are you crazy?’ Both of which are fairly common place around the Avengers. They are also all different variations of grimaces and frowny eyebrows.

“Look, is there anything that you don’t want to be a part of? Ground rules are good rules. The rest we’ll figure out.”

“Well, I would have said ‘I’d like to keep my mask on thanks!’ but we both know how that turned out.”

“There’s only one more person that needs to see your face, and he’s kind of off world at the moment. You don’t wear the mask in the tower, but no one else has to know okay?” 

Geez, he’s such a softy. Probably because he knows a thing or two about people dying around you. Hell, he probably killed off at least twenty of his co-workers about a year ago, and had a hand in the death of the one person he had wanted to protect the most.

“Well then, no, not really. I can handle myself.”

“Like you handle your way around a helicopter?”

“Let’s see you try hanging from a helicopter blade while it spends more time filming you than trying to correct its course, whilst simultaneously attempting not to murder the people inside through gross negligence. Even though you really kind of want to.”

“Why would I attach myself to a helicopter blade?”

Peter doesn’t seem to have an answer for this, although he's muttering like he’s not particularly happy about it. Clint risks taking a few steps forward and pats the kid on the shoulder.

“Until you warm up to the others, I don’t mind training you. Can you rock up to the tower at eight tomorrow morning?”

He doesn’t mention that the others all want to know more about Spiderman’s abilities. And that Steve wants to talk. That would not go down well. No one wants to face Steve when he’s in lecture mode. Clint himself experiences it fairly rarely at once or twice a day. 0/10 would not recommend.

“Why are you helping me?”

“What, one superhero can’t help another spider-guy out?” 

Peter rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Yeah alright. I can probably use all the help I can get at this point.”

“Hey, even I can admit that Spiderman can be pretty awesome.”

He gets a crooked smile for this as Peter dusts the dirt from his legs.

“See you tomorrow.” The kid nods, and, using one hand like he’s hopping a fence, jumps off the building.

Meh. Clint throws himself off of things daily. He grew up in a circus. It’s gonna take a lot more than that to faze him. Training Spiderman is going to be fun.


	6. Chapter 6

When Hawkeye had decided to drop in, Peter had been pretty proud of not making a complete idiot of himself in front of one the world’s mightiest heroes. Turns out that avoiding eye contact may be a viable way of dealing with the Avengers. Which is good, since Peter is just plain old Peter and has no idea how to handle the whole... thing otherwise.

Although... Hawkeye hadn’t really acted like one of the most famous people on the planet. Although, come to think of it, it's not like his name is being broadcast by the media. No one is entirely sure of his real identity, which is decidedly strange given that every other avenger pretty much has no privacy at all. Even Bruce Banner, who makes plain that he very much dislikes any sort of media attention... or attention in general really, still has more known facts about him than Hawkeye. Frankly, given this fame and the bare fact that he's no one really, Peter hadn’t really been expecting anything from the Avengers. At the most he thought they might send him a get well card and someone to collect what he owed for a new window. He's 100% certain that that window is definitely broken now.

But Hawkeye had sought him out and now wanted to show him how to beat the baddies better. He didn’t seem to want money… or much of anything from Peter except his time.

Made him question why they were so keen to help him out. Hawkeye seems like a really cool guy and all, but Peter isn’t naïve anymore.

He also isn’t an amateur by any means; he has defeated a giant lizard, a guy who called himself Electro (a bit narcissistic in Peter's opinion, but to each their own) who had had some seriously wacked out electricity abilities. He's still not entirely clear about that one actaully. Surely the internet, phone lines and electricity are all separate things? He had even defeated his best friend Harry Osborn, the Green Goblin, on a few rare occasions. 

Not easy by any means. 

Not that Peter could really count that one as a win when it was his own damn fault that Harry had turned out the way that he had.

He finds himself attempting to shake the thoughts out of his head with quick jerks, as he always does when he thinks about Harry or Gwen or Ben or any of the other countless people who have … yes well. It turns out that he can’t shake all of his problems off.

Taylor Swift, you liar.

He’s standing on the corner of the intersection in front of the Stark tower. He doesn’t get why people still call it that since the only thing remaining of the old STARK letters on the top is the A. The rest have been cleared away, and Peter wonders why the famous Tony Stark hasn’t gotten on fixing that yet. Probably has some sorta meaning behind it.

He’s been standing on the corner of this intersection for the past fifteen minutes because he can’t decide whether to go in or not. Spiderman isn’t normally met with much appreciation, especially by those who consider themselves power figureheads. 

Even pedestrians that he greets when swinging through the city still give him the finger or a scream as he flies past them, which is a little disheartening. You know, Peter might be able to chalk that one up to jump-scares. It is New York after all. He has to admit that since his little sabbatical which involved hanging up the suit for eight months after… you know… well anyway, people generally like him better now that they know how sucky it is without spiderman around. Peter Parker? Well that’s a whole different story.

He quite likes popping up out of nowhere. It reminds people that he could be anyone anywhere. And that he is a ninja. Hawkeye could probably teach him some more sneaky ninja skills. If, of course, he can accept what’s coming and join up. He suspects that that would mean he would need to work double duty as Spiderman to keep them out of his messes. They are his responsibility now after all, whether he decides to team up with them or not. Might even be easier to protect them this way!

Could be fun. Who knows? Yes, optimism. Peter is capable of optimism. Probably.

One thing’s for sure though. Even though they all know his face, there’s no way that Peter Parker would go into that building. 

But Spiderman… well. Let’s just say that he’s up to the challenge.

 

 

 

“Sir? Sir, there seems to be a youth clad in red and blue spandex conversing with the lobby staff. Should I direct him to the top floors of the tower? My estimates predict that despite the visible differences between the the apparel of today and that of three days ago, there is a 99% probability that he is Peter Parker.”

Tony, who had been tweaking the mark VII’s left elbow joint, spins at his AI’s request to find a black nozzle in his face. Following the nozzle was a red cylinder and a single-armed (who was now singularly armed) mass of metal and circuitry. 

How Tony had created such a loveable misfit in Dum-E, he didn’t know. It was probably the tequila.

“So you’re saying that Spiderman is hitting on my secretaries. Isn’t the kid too young for that?” He asks, batting the fire extinguisher away and narrowing his eyes at Dum-E, performing the ‘I’m watching you’ gesture with his fingers as he walks backwards towards the sink.

“Sir, he appears to be asking for Agent Barton.”

“What? What’s he looking for Katniss for? This IS my tower after all. Show him in here.”

“As you wish Sir.”

Well. 

What was Hawkeye up to, luring Spiderman back here without him? Tony has obviously been left out of some deviance. That's no fun. 

Eh, didn’t matter. The kid has landed himself in Tony's lap, and now it was his turn to prod at him and unearth all his secrets. Including his mutant spider powers. He has already created a bunch of tests that could prove very enlightening.

He's washing the grease from his hands in the sink as spiderman wonders into the lab. The kid is hopping from one foot to the other, turning his head this way and that as he takes in the many miscellaneous objects, machinery and inventions that take up Tony’s space.

The kid seems to have an over-abundance of curiosity, especially around Dum-E and U, who are circling him like excited puppies. Tony can’t help the smile that crosses his face when spiderman shakes hands with both of them and lets them pull him over to different projects that he’s been working on.

Peter takes particular interest in the screen that Tony has up that’s replaying the team’s movements from their past fight. Steve likes to review, and Tony’s can’t begrudge the guy that when it’s all he’s asked of him.

"Hey! don't you know that it's rude to look at someone's computer screen from over their shoulder?" He can’t really have him learning their secrets. At least not until Tony has learnt everything about him. And he does mean everything.

"Uh, you are standing over there. There are no shoulders involved. Well, there is, but I'm not looking over any shoulders. In fact, I'm not really even looking at something hidden. It's right there. In the open. You know, where everyone and their dog can see it."

“Don’t think we didn’t notice what you were doing, because we did,” Tony says, changing tact.

Spiderman jumps back guiltily and almost knocks dummy over. He raises his hands, palms out placatingly toward the robot to make sure that he’s not going to topple over.

“Who is this we?”

“Mostly me.”

“Cryptic.”

"If you're curious, you could just ask."

"What the heck? I just did!"

"I think we'll get along just fine."

The spandex-clad youth sighs, seemingly deciding to ignore the being who makes no sense, and turns to continue his inspection of the lab. Tony, shrugging and now quite used to being ignored, returns his attention to the hologram in front of him. He glances at the kid out of the corner of his eye before pressing the big red button on the screen. Spiderman can see him doing it, but all the writing must surely read as gibberish to the kid. Tony loves big red buttons.

“Why am I get a tingly feeling in here?”

“Dunno. Why are you?”

Tony squints his eyes and frowns as the kid takes a sharp step to the left just as the red, green and blue balls of light shoot past where he had been standing. 

Tony had chosen fireworks for this as he knew that even if they hit the kid, they wouldn’t injure him (probably. Eh, it was no worse than Tony had done to himself. In fact, it was no worse than most teenagers had shot at each other).

The kid had avoided it. Before it had even happened. What?

Dum-E, who was still wielding the fire extinguisher, faced the kid and pressed the release just as Tony was using his genius to figure out this current conundrum. Which is why (a) he doesn’t stop the dummy (aptly named, if he does say so himself) and (b) he ends up covered in white powder. AGAIN. 

Where did he put the ‘dunce’ hat again?

The second downside to being distracted is that somehow the kid has disappeared. Widow-level disappeared. 

How had he scared the kid away already?! Actually, not that surprising.

“Well. That coulda been potentially dangerous.”

Tony follows the voice’s source to the ceiling, where Peter Parker is stuck like a startled cat on all fours, toes pointed and body tense. His head is turned in an odd manner and Tony can’t help the startled laugh that he lets out, despite the ruin that was once his favourite shirt. Meh. Totally worth it.

“Tony, what is going on?”

Typical Steve, with his perfect timing. Timing that always seems to get Tony in trouble.

“Uh, nothing?" Steve's not buying it, so Tony says more firmly; "Playing with the kid.”

“Why is Peter on the ceiling? And why are you covered in white goop? Why does Dum-E have a fire extinguisher? Is there a fire?”

“There's no fire, don’t worry about it.”

Steve’s worried face intensifies. Why is it that whenever he says ‘don’t worry,’ the people in his immediate vicinity always go all tense and buzzy? He generally doesn’t blow things up when there’s other people around! He’s nice like that.

“Uh, I’m still getting tingly feelings from up here, so I think imma stay. Okay?”

“Come down please Peter.”

Stern Steve face effects the kid the same way that it effects everyone else. Peter somehow unsuckers from the ceiling, landing on the ground in a crouch. Steve walks up to him like he sees teens dropping from the sky on a regular basis and sticks his hand out.

Spiderman slowly pulls himself into a standing position and eyes the hand suspiciously. Or, at least, Tony thinks he does. Hard to tell with the mask and all. 

Steve smiles encouragingly, his eyes softening to a sky blue. Knees melt. Kid shakes his hand. 

Meanwhile, Tony finds out that the sink is not a very good surface to lean against. Luckily Tony is nothing if not smooth, and he manages to make his slight weight miscalculation and consequential stumble seem veeery casual.

The kid still has his gloved hand attached to strong fingers. Steve continues smiling.

“Not that this isn’t all puppies and rainbows, but you can let go now kid.”

Spiderman is leaning back like its Steve who’s still holding on to him. He is also tugging insistently with his other hand at their joint fingers.

“Sorry, sorry… it happens. Not often, you know, not recently. Actually when I first started out, there was this time on a train. Uhhh… this doesn’t usually happen?”

“Yeah. Steve has that effect on everyone. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, Tony, I think he literally means that we’re stuck. I can’t let go either.”

“What, supersoldier can’t break one kid’s handgrip? Come on now Steve.”

“Uh, woah there big guy. I’ve totally got this. Don’t take my arm off. I need that for hero stuff.”

Tony is forcing himself not to laugh at Steve’s expression as the kid clambers up his body and plants one leg on a shoulder while the other grips his upper bicep. The muscles in said legs strain as the kid hauls on their attached palms.

It is because he is such a gentleman that he has managed to mask his laughter as little hiccups. He consequently doesn’t notice the shadow that drops from the air duct behind him until the guy is literally breathing down his neck. 

“What the hell Tony?”

“Oh, god! Why do you always have to do that?" Yep, Hawkeye was still creepy as fuck sometimes. "How did you get in here? JARVIS! Where was my intruder alert? Flashing lights, big loud siren? Ringing any bells? Why are there so many people in my lab?”

“Sir, I had assumed that since you allowed Spiderman to enter your private labs, the invitation must also have been extended to other members of the team. I ascertained that Agent Barton was searching for him, and felt no need to prevent him entry through the ventilation system.”

“What? What is this? A democracy? Don’t you go all Skynet on me JARVIS. Agent over there might be a terminator. His hair is very Schwartzerniger-ish.”

“Oh, get over it Tony. Your AI loves me. And also Steve. Go cry in a bag of money.”

“Oh very nice.”

“Come on kid. I believe we had a date.”

Spiderman lifts his head at Clint and gestures towards his continuing predicament with no small amount of exasperation. 

Steve has been taking this pretty well so far. He’s been a big, blonde statue for the duration of the kid’s tugging movements, even though he has taken a sizeable number of elbows and knees to unfortunate parts of his body. He only starts shifting uncomfortably when Barton is stalking towards them with the kind of determination that Tony has learned to associate with bad things.

“Hawkeye, I don’t think the problem will need force to fix, it will probably wear out after… oh.”

Barton had walked up to the kid, who had since completed a front flip off of Steve, hand still attached, to face Barton, and pressed a point in the kid’s arm that had the whole thing flopping limply and dropping from Steve’s hand.

“Pressure point. Problem solved. Now let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys  
> Hehehehe hehehe hehe he he he.  
> So, the minute I set myself an update schedule I go and break it.  
> Soz.  
> It's been a week, so I thought two chapters might suffice?  
> In my defence, I was on an island of no internet access. Literally.  
> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and all that jazz.


	7. Chapter 7

“Uh, not that I’m not grateful for the save or anything, coz’ let me tell you, that was embarrassing, but where are we going?”

Peter can already feel the cringe-worthy moment creeping into his memory for later; probably in the form of all-over body chills when he’s staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep. Captain America. A shudder-worthy moment with Captain America. Just, really. The cherry on top there. Day couldn’t have been off to a better start.

They’re on one of the top levels of the tower among a dizzying array of aircraft. The money surrounding them in the form of machines kinda makes Peter wanna hurl. Chunkily. Not only does the whole helicopter incident come to mind, but everything suddenly seems really, really breakable. Especially if you have a smidge of super strength. What can he say? He doesn’t have Captain America’s decorum. Or balance.

Hawkeye continues walking towards the end of the room, where there is some weird hanger door thing that opens directly into a fifty-story drop. They pass a small commercial plane and a few helicopters.How many square metres is the floor space of this tower? Out of the corner of his eye and through a glass... window? - Is it a wall or a window? - Peter can see a weird platform thing above them that looks like it’s been pulled straight out of a Star Trek movie. Or maybe Stargate? It’s got the transporter thing going for it in any case.

“I told you I would train you. So I'm gonna train you.” Bit concerning since Hawkeye seems to be fully suited up with his arrow pouch and a pretty mean looking recurve bow. He also has an unassuming case in one hand that looks large enough to fit a rifle in it. It probably has a rifle in it.

“Why are we headed towards some weird flying submarine? Also, is that a gun?” 

The …thing in front of Peter looks incredibly lethal and incredibly difficult to fly. It is black and sleek and has a ramp directly underneath it that leads into a darkness that would normally have Spiderman feeling a bit twitchy. Recent events have shown Hawkeye to be just as suspicious as and of him however, if not a little more aggressively twitchy, so Peter lets this one go. He can trust Hawkeye in this (nothing like reciprocal trust). Besides, the old Spidey senses say that there are no creatures with sharp teeth hiding in the … ship.

“You wound me. That there is my baby. And it is a hovercraft. Flying submarine my ass. Two, I don't recall saying that I only shoot arrows. It’s just more fun that way. Gun's just in case. Get it? Coz it's in a case. It'll stay in the craft till I need it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I not educated enough in the ways of conspicuous flying spaceships that can only be flown by ninja agents with crazy marksmanship and reflexes for you?”

“The opposite actually. You might be too educated for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t worry about it kid. Get in the flying spaceship.”

Peter finds himself following Hawkeye as he saunters up the ramp and into the ‘driver’s seat’ of the hovercraft. There is a second seat next to the pilot’s chair, but it is surrounded by a lot of red ‘touch this and the ship may explode’ buttons and Peter isn’t sure that he should be sitting amongst the temptation. He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t gotten bitten doing something that he really shouldn’t have been doing because he was curious.

Peter always had been curious.

Hawkeye isn’t really paying him much attention though, what with all the button pushing of his own that he's doing, so he straps himself into the chair and begins feeling out the controls.

“Don’t touch that.”

Peter narrows his eyes at the head that still hasn't glanced over at him, but pulls his hand back from the biggest button that he had been eyeing. He grumbles as he sits back in his chair, pouting with his arms crossed over his chest as Hawkeye eases the ship forward and out of the hanger door. Not that Hawkeye is going to see the pout. Serious disadvantage of the mask. 

Hawkeye pulls a lever that seems to powers up the hovercraft when they reach a certain altitude, and they begin bulleting through the sky. Peter has never been on a plane before, and decides that Hawk-guy does fly a bit like a bird. It’s all smooth and glidey and he thinks that Clint's almost as good at piloting this hunk of metal as Peter is at getting through the city, Spidey style. Not quite though.

They level off as they reach the ocean (which, you know, takes a while) and Hawkeye pulls a lever labelled ‘auto-pilot’ and flings off his harness before heading towards the back of the plane. Peter is a little slower as he fumbles with the buckles. He grabs at the conveniently hanging handholds that must be there to assist standing passengers as he joins archer man in the back. He is not all that steady on his feet. How does Hawkeye manage to walk around like they're not hundreds of feet in the air and hitting small patches of turbulance? Clint motions Peter in close when he reaches him, and then lays a hand on his shoulder. Peter feels much more steady.

“Okay kid. I’m going to be honest with you. SHIELD doesn’t like you. You’re on a vigilante list that they monitor, and they’re not a fan of the whole secret identity thing that you have going. They have this thing about power and control? Can't have someone going around, solving problems all willy nilly without their say so. They like to say it's so they can hold powerful people accountable, but they can be pretty shady themselves. They’re probably gonna try to discover who you are once we’re on board… I don't want to say by any means necessary because that sounds corny as shit, but yep, they're gonna try pretty damn hard, and probably very creatively. I will attempt to make sure that that doesn't happen. Avengers need to know basis only is the aim here. Nick isn’t gonna be happy, and usually I like to listen to that man because he will make your life miserable for fun, but meh. My self-presevation skills have been noticably lacking of late. Case in point; I still work for SHIELD even though the entire agency isn’t all that happy with me either, since I blew up their ship this one time…”

“Wait what? And why are we going to SHIELD if they don’t like spiderman? That seems a bit counterproductive.”

“I don't know if SHIELD really 'likes' anyone, ya know? I mean, except Thor, but he's basically a golden retriever with a weapon of mass production. Adorable and will probably bowl you over whilst being simultaneously extremely deadly. I'm sure it'll be fine. Also, a therapist has convinced me that if I hadn’t been mind-raped by an alien I never would have shot friendlies. But all the rapey swords are safely imprisoned for life so you're in no danger from that corner either.”

Well that sounds like it must have sucked. As it turns out, Peter’s not the only one with some issues to iron out.

“You have my permission to take me out if you hear that Thor’s brother is hanging around though.”

Uh, no thanks, Peter thinks. Spiderman would rather not subdue someone who has near perfect marksmanship and could easily shoot him six ways to Sunday. But that might not be what Hawkeye means.

“And SHIELD has the best training facilities of anywhere that I know. Specialized training grounds for people like Steve who need that sort of thing. And I'm beginning to think that you might fall into his sort of category. Which reminds me, he’ll be meeting us there. I buzzed him just before. He's still getting the hang of iphones, so we generally use his pager. Steve will be helping you with strength, Nat's the best with agility and sparring and I, of course, will help you with your aim.”

“I’m not completely useless you know.”

“We’re just helping you develop a bit. We’re pretty good at what we do kid. Plus, we want you around. That means you need to learn to work with us. Is this sales pitch working at all by the way?”

They want him on the team? Since when? And why?

“I don’t even know if I want to be on a team. Any team really. What makes you think I wanna be an Avenger?”

“Eh. We’ll teach you either way. If you’re gonna go out there anyway, you may as well be trained. I need a hobby, kid, and it looks like you're it”

“Well, okay then. But didn’t we leave Captain America back at the tower? Isn't he the boss? He does have Captain in his name. I distinctly remember slinking away in shame and leaving a certain someone shell-shocked in a lab.”

“The Cap will probably want you to call him Steve. There’s not much that really phases him after the whole ‘welcome home, you jumped seventy years into the future and everybody you know is dead’ thing that he now has to deal with. I’m Clint, so you should call me that.”

“Being the sneaky sneaker that you are, you already know my name. But I guess it’d be cool if you call me Peter. When, you know, I’m not Spiderman.”

“Alrighty then. Bruce will probably like it if you call him by his name as well, and everybody knows Thor is Thor. The others I’m not too sure about…”

He’s probably referring to Widow. The Black Widow didn’t seem too keen to befriend Spiderman when they first met. To be fair, Peter had been bleeding out and weighing Hawkeye down. And she seemed very fond of Hawkeye. 

Tony Stark is probably a whole other story. No one seems too sure about him.

“To answer your original question, he’s Steve. Steve, like every one of us, has his own way of doing things. He’s still at the tower right now, but knowing him, he’ll run to the beach and then swim the rest of the way and meet us there in about an hour. He hasn't been able to get to the gym today. There are SHIELD agents down in logistics who work the radar who know to look out for him so they can lift him out of the ocean when he’s close enough. He’s insane like that”

“Say whaaaaaa?”

“Yeah. You’ll find out. The man runs ridiculously fast. I cannot emphasise that enough. Anyway, we’ll be there soon, just relax. We should be alright, but stay with me and follow what I do. If things don’t go as planned, I’ll improvise.”

“Got it. What d’you think the odds of that happening are? Just so I’m prepared.”

“Uhh, we’ll probably be fine?”

Hawkeye (Clint, Peter’s on first name basis now) shrugs nonchalantly and heads back up to the pilot’s seat. Peter squints at his back and bites his lip. What’s the worst that could happen? Well. He could get shot. There was always that. And he knows from experience that it’s not particularly enjoyable.

Instead of going down, like Peter had thought they would, Clint angles the hovercraft upwards until, out of nowhere, a massive aircraft appears. It’s a floating, mechanic island and is held up by four massive turbines. The underside had been completely invisible from below.

“How’d you even see that?”

“I’ve been told that my eyesight is pretty good.”

“You’re telling me that you could see it? I couldn't see that.” Which is odd because Peter knows that he can glance up at a scene and take in one hundred percent of the information around him. This allows him to figure out where the empty space is and where every other object and body exists in regards to his own body in movement in a matter of seconds. Handy when he's usually throwing himself around at high speeds. 'Course it used to give him a bit of a headache before he became Spiderman.

“Yup.”

Hawkeye simply shrugs when Peter gapes at him. After a while he ducks his head and pays very close attention to the hovercraft's control board.

Is... is Hawkeye... blushing? Slightly? Little pink tinge? Does this man not receive compliments? How the hickity heck is this full grown man embarressed over Peter's blatant awe?

They touch down on the giant floating metal island next to a line of other flying vehicles which look very similar to Clint’s. He falls into step behind the archer as the platform lowers and tries to look as inconspicuous as possible in a black and red full-body skin-suit. It’s lucky he’s so slight, because he can literally hide behind Hawkeye if he has to.

Which is exactly what he does as Clint marches across the carrier and into the massive floating fortress. It’s (not-surprisingly) very high tech inside, and there are plenty of areas that Peter wishes he could explore, had he not unintentionally pissed off every person on said floating fortress. 

Areas full of labs and other sciency things that Peter really wants to get his hands on pass them by and they continue through the corridor at a brisk walk. From what he can see through open doors and windows, some of it looks either very ancient or very alien. After what happened in New York almost a year ago, he's not gonna rule anything out. 

Yeah. That fight wasn't so fun.

The floating island fortress has also got a great number of windows and open spaces. It’s not nearly as claustrophobic inside the secret base full of special agents who can kill you with a tea-cup and probably have access to world destroyers as Peter thought.

Clint strides along like he owns the place and hardly receives a second glance. Peter, however, gets narrowed eyes and tight lips and general disapproval.

Staring at Hawkeye’s back as he walks turns out to be quite comforting. If Peter's eyes sometimes drift to stupidly muscled biceps he can't be blamed for it. The guy is wearing what amounts to an armored tank top. With tight-fitting wrist guards or something. He has really nice arms.

Which is what Peter is thinking when Clint comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of a hallway and Peter finds his face smooshed into his back. Detracting his face, he rubs his nose as he peeks over Clint’s shoulder. There’s a woman and two men wearing very expensive suits and very sour faces conversing outside a very locked door. They each have a key card that they are periodically swiping across the access point, which continues to blink red at them. 

Peter doesn’t like the stillness that has Clint glued to the floor. He seems… upset. Which doesn’t bode well.

The three sour-pusses across the room still haven’t looked up from their problem with the door, but it’s only a matter of time before they notice them. Does Clint not want them to notice them? Peter begins tugging on the archer’s sleeve, trying to inch them both towards the open doorway they had originally come through to get into the corridor. 

He’s stopped by a thick piece of rope that falls directly in front of him as he’s forcefully pulling on an arm that seems determined to stay put. Niiiiice arm. He glances up at the air duct that has materialized such a fortuitous item, and catches a flash of red hair. 

Right.

Peter moves the rope into Clint’s hands and the man robotically climbs it all the way up until he’s disappearing into the vent. Looks like the autopilot still works, which Peter is infinitely grateful for. He is soooo not qualified as a trauma councillor. He can barely handle his own mess.

The rope disappears as quickly as it appeared, and Peter is left standing in a hallway like a deer in the headlights. Rude. Luckily, he has no need for rope, and simply jumps and sticks to the ceiling. He then crawls his way over and into the air vent. It’s a tight fit inside and he finds the Black Widow with her hands on either side of Hawkeye’s face. She is looking fiercely into his eyes and doing that silent conversation thing that they had been doing when Peter had first met her.

Clint is breathing deeply and Peter can see the tension gradually leaving his body.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

“They weren’t meant to be here. Fury didn’t know they were coming.” The red-head slowly takes her hands away as Hawkeye shifts his weight and centers himself. 

“Why are they here?”

Widow stays silent at this and lets Clint draw his own conclusion. Peter doesn’t get it. Surprise.

Staying with the silent theme, they both take off down the ventilation shaft without a word. Peter trails along behind, wondering where the closest bathroom would be now that he’s crawling around in the ceiling. Which is a pretty normal occurrence for him all-round anyway.

The silence is kinda awkward so Peter, being Peter, decides to help everybody out.

“So… do you guys live here, or what?”

“Yes.” 

Well, at least he got an answer from Widow.

“Sort of.” 

Wait, how can you ‘sort of’ live somewhere? And Widow lives here but Hawkeye doesn’t? Aren’t those two BFF’s or something? Or dating? Peter really can't figure them out. What he does know is that they are really, really close.

“Thanks for the save Nat. Perfect timing. Much love.”

Dating love? Could someone please point this out to Peter?

“I know.”

Ehhh, Maybe?

“Okay, well, now you’re meant to say something nice back.”

“Well that’s a shame.”

“Don’t worry Peter. She’s always like this. You’re fine with her as long as she sniffs in your general direction. Sorry for that back there.”

Was that English? “Uh yeah. What happened?” 

How could someone like Hawkeye be afraid of people like that when it’s obvious he could take them out from a hundred feet away with a penny if he chose?

“Word of advice. Stay away from them. I like my life well enough the way it is, so I stay away. They secretly have little pointy teeth and horns and generally make a mess of things. Tried to blow up New York once.”

“Are they bad guys then? We could totally take them. Look at them! They’re all wrinkly and old looking.”

“Peter.”

Both the Widow and Hawkeye have stopped to face him and give what he’s sure will be a boring lecture. The Widow is doing something weird with the bottom of the ventilation shaft whilst also retaining eye contact. Peter breaks teh staring contest and squints to see what she's doing in the darkness.

There’s a loud, ominous clanging sound. He doesn’t get lectured.

Widow pushes him through the now open hatch. He flails on the way down in a manner that is in no way graceful, but lands in his classic spiderman crouch, legs bent, one arm outstretched with his pinkie, pointer and thumb aimed at whoever is in the room.

It’s cool that his body just automatically targets unknown threats now. Less cool about the uncoordinated limb waving.

Also not so cool is that the unknown threat that had his body landing in an defensive position is a big guy with dark skin and an eye-patch. He seems like the boss-man. He’s also wearing a kick-ass trench coat. Spidey senses say that he’s good people. Weird. Maybe they’re on the fritz again. Be ready for attack but good people? Brain signals what're you doing? You have to pick one.

Eye-patch guy glances up from the tablet that he has on his desk to eye Peter, then goes back to whatever it is that he’s doing. Which must be reeeaaally important.

“Taadah!”

What? Maybe he hadn’t seen Peter. Usually the colour scheme is hard to miss.

“Hawkeye. Widow. Get out of the damn ceiling.” Still hasn’t looked up from the tablet. What does a guy have to do? Is this a secret agent thing? Because it feels like this might be a thing.

Somehow, despite the one-man sized hatch, both the special agents drop down like synchronized dancers to land behind Peter in identical crouches. Ninjas can be creepy.

Trench coat man has finally decided that Spiderman is worthy of his time and has stood up to make his way to the front of his desk. He leans back and begins eyeing him critically. Peter decides that he liked it better when the dude had other things to do.

“He was never here. I never saw anything. Specialized training fields are stuck on level seven access for the moment, which bars entry for anyone not a member of the Avengers team with very, very few exceptions. It will take security a week to fix. Don’t know how that happened, but I blame Stark. He’s so easy to blame. Run along now.”

What, so he’s allowing them access without allowing them access? Spies man.

“He’s your responsibility. Widow, take him to the Captain. He’s in the gym. Where he always is. Why we don’t just set up a cot for that boy I don’t know. Barton, stay. We need to talk.”

Peter finds himself being manhandled out the door before he can get a word in. Which was probably the plan. He doesn’t like that Clint’s not coming. He’s supposed to be training him! And Peter’s not sure that he trusts any of the others. Or that they have any positive inclinations toward spiderman at all. Also what the heck can Captain America teliport? There's no way he beat a freaking hovercraft here and they weren't in the ceiling that long.

“And keep an eye out for the Council. I don’t want to hear that they know about a certain gimp-like spider on my ship.”

“The Spiderman costume looks nothing like a gimp suit!” Peter yells from around the corner as he is dragged further down the hallway by a woman with vice-like grip.


	8. Chapter 8

The door to Fury’s office slides shut in a way that makes Clint want to leave the room in an unorderly fashion. He hates it when Fury needs to ‘talk.’ It never ends well, and it’s almost always bad news if it requires a face-to-face discussion. The man is the most antisocial person Clint knows.

Fury has straightened up since Peter left and is now standing in the military ‘rest’ position with his hands behind his back and his feet spread shoulder width apart. It’s an acknowledgment that has Clint narrowing his eyes. He is the subordinate here, so something fishy is going on. He can feel himself shifting into a more defensible position.

“Agent Barton. Why has the number of strays that you have picked off the side of the road doubled since the last time I saw you?”

“I like to keep myself busy sir.”

“What is it about the spiders Barton? If you have that much free time, I’m sure we can find something for you to do.”

“He needs our help sir. I’m sure I’ll be plenty busy enough.”

“Do you even know who he is?”

“Yup.”

“Care to share?”

“Nope.”

Fury eyes him and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Explain.”

“He wants to remain anonymous. I don’t see the harm in it sir. I like him.”

“You like him.”

“Yup.”

Fury grimaces like he just spat on his shoe. Clint can admit that it’s pretty rare for this to happen. He mostly likes to keep to himself now - it makes him less vulnerable. Having people in his life means that he can’t just disappear. He remembers what it was like when he didn’t have anyone. And he doesn’t particularly like the person that he was back then. At the same time Clint trusts very few people enough to be close. Fury knows this.

“How do you know that that spider isn’t gonna bite you on the ass?”

Clint doesn’t know. But he’s getting the same feeling about Spiderman as he got from the Black Widow. That this is a person who needs him. And it might just be that Clint needs him too.

After Loki and… Coulson, Clint has been feeling himself closing off and shutting down. He can’t trust himself anymore, which was the one thing that he had always been able to rely on. He is unsteady. His shots are still perfect, he can follow orders, but he feels alone in SHIELD in a way that he hadn't before. He avoids the place if he can, but he’s still an agent, he’s still useful, and he’ll do his job. He doesn’t know who he is if he’s not Hawkeye.

He can handle being looked at like a murderer by people he once thought of as, if not friends, then at least amiable co-workers. 

Can't really blame 'em for that one. He is a murderer. He was a murderer long before Loki. He can handle this. He’s been handling this his entire life. He’s tough. There is not much that really hurts him anymore. 

But people, if he gives them the ability, can.

There is a hole that Coulson punched through him when he died, and Clint knows it’s a weakness. He doesn’t like people poking at it. He needs to fill in some of it so that it's not so ugly to look at and not so fucking painful.

“Don’t think that this matter has been dropped. I’m sweeping it under the carpet for now, in favour of more pressing matters. If Spiderman turns out to be a problem, don’t think that I won’t name names. Now, on a scale of one to ten, how functional do you think you have been over the last seven months specialist?”

Clint thinks it over. He’d maintained his ninety-eight percent success rate on missions despite the shitstorm that brought the avengers together. He was still in peak physical condition, he ate, he exercised and he even slept on some nights when the need overtook him. He was still on the team despite being the weakest link. He knows that he has a lot to make up for, so over the last few months he has become the weapon that SHIELD needs him to be. If that means they see him as a little less human and a little more like a pin-point accurate machine, then that seems fair enough to Clint.

Stark probably wouldn’t appreciate the company though.

“I am a fully functional agent sir.”

“I realise that - it might surprise you to know that I am capable of using the muscle inside my head called my brain, but are you a fully functional, healthy human being? And before you even start, that was a rhetorical question. I have kept my eye on you, and I don’t think I like the way that you’ve been dealing with this. Or should I say; haven’t been dealing with this. Get your head on straight, Agent. I’ve given you time. Now you get over it.”

Oh right. Get over it. Easy. 

Unfortunately Clint’s not indestructible. He might be an Avenger, but it’s not like he has super-powers. So excuse him if he is having difficulty getting over the fact that he betrayed everyone and everything that he once thought mattered to him. And that one of these people ended up dead as a result of his fuck-up.

“Does any of this have to do with Phil? Because that would be incredibly stupid,” the man asks Clint, a crease of annoyance between his eyes.

Someone should seriously look into whether Fury has some kind of mind-reading capabilities. It makes him feel twitchy.

“It’s none of your business sir.”

“Actually, it is. I am your superior and your boss, and it is my business to make money off of you.”

“No. No, it’s really not.”

Fury seems pretty pissed with him, which admittedly is his fall back expression, as he turns around and begins turning the lock to the safe he keeps hidden behind the picture frame he keeps on the far wall. The picture itself is ugly, depicting a barren wasteland filled with dust and crumbling buildings. How New York should have ended up? A reminder perhaps. 

Clint understands on a basic level what Fury wants, which is why he follows orders. He mostly agrees with the guy. He’s better off being under Fury’s control than someone else’s.

“You realise that that there is a massive cliché sir? That’s the first place I’d look if I was looking for a safe.”

“Thank you for your input Barton. You may add that to the pile of stupid-ass things that logistics now have to deal with.”

“You’re welcome sir.”

As the door to the safe swings open, Fury reaches in to grab one of the few files that has a level eight clearance stamp inked over the front. Fury is the only one with sufficient clearance to access level eight. He promptly opens the file and begins spreading paper over his desk.

Coulson’s corpse fills Clint’s vision. 

He’s gone over the security tapes time and again. He’s forced himself to watch it already. He doesn’t need this.

He’s begins backing up. The door isn’t far.

“Barton,” Fury barks, stopping him in his tracks. He can feel his hands beginning to shake as Fury advances on him, the report detailing Coulson’s death in one outstretched hand.

When Fury reaches him, Clint makes no move to take the papers. Fury stares him down, but he's used to this. No one can make him do something he doesn’t want to do. Not anymore. That much he is sure of.

After several lengthy minutes, Fury shoves the paper into his chest. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t blink, and continues staring straight ahead. The sheets flutter to the floor. Fury growls in frustration.

“Read it agent.”

“No.”

“Phil wants you to read it. He believes it’s important.”

“Coulson doesn’t want anything. He’s dead.”

“I could always read it to you.”

Clint hadn’t heard the door opening, and hadn’t detected a presence entering the room, but then, he never had with this man. This man, who he knows is dead. The proof of which is still lying on Fury’s desk in vivid black and red.

He won’t turn around. He can’t. He can take a lot, but he can’t take that.

A hand lands on his shoulder from behind. Clint jerks and sidesteps until the foreign object is no longer making contact with his body. He then does what he always does in high stress situations, and impersonates a statue. 

He’s had plenty of practice at this since he was a child, first in avoiding his father, and then his tormenters at the circus. He adapted it when he became an archer and then a sniper and now, as an agent, he uses it when he really doesn’t want others to know what he’s thinking. They’re spies and can read him like a book normally. He has tells. 

Now he doesn’t.

Coulson obviously cares about him even less than Clint originally thought.

He would understand a lack of trust. He would have understood a couple of months. But this? Clint has been living with the fact that he had caused Coulson’s death for almost a year. This is no longer punishment. This is rejection.

This is abandonment.

And Clint has had enough of that to last a lifetime.

His new position at the side of the room has put him directly in front of a black bookcase full of files. He begins calmly removing those files and placing them gently on the floor. Fury is still talking but Clint stopped listening quite some time ago.

He disassembles the shelving with a blank expression and stacks it carefully next to the files. He is left with the skeleton of the bookcase which consists of four black metal poles.

He notices the silence that has overtaken the room as he hefts one of the poles in his left dominant hand. He angles his body so he is still facing Fury and not the man standing behind him.

Fury is giving away his nerves as his hand strays to the handgun that he always has on his hip. His other hand is faced palm up, fingers splayed, in Clint’s direction.

“Specialist?”

Clint still isn’t really feeling anything.

He heaves the pole onto his shoulder and throws it like a javelin at Fury’s desk. He watches blandly as it spears through the photo that continues to mock him. The pole continues through the desk and embeds itself in the ground. 

He hadn’t meant to put that much strength behind it. The desk is ruined.

He’s still an effective weapon.

He turns to leave, carefully averting his attention from the shape that he knows is to the back and left of him. He reaches the door successfully. Neither of the men in the room stop him.

He gently closes the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise mofos, Phlint will now be a thing.  
> It surprised me too, until I realised that I really, really like their dynamic.  
> Changes to tags will therefore be made.  
> Peter coming up in the next chapter, don't you worry.


	9. Chapter 9

Being dragged by the Black Widow is not a pleasant experience. Peter finds that not only can he not tug his wrist out of her grip (though he definitely should be able to, what with his compounded strength), he also can’t seem to manage to plant his feet on the ground and stop forward movement. This is all despite the fact that, technically, he can physically glue said appendage to the ground. Every time he tries, the Widow somehow manages to unbalance him, and he ends up stumbling forward like a wayward puppy on a leash.

On the bright side, people seem to be avoiding them as they stomp through endless corridors. Probably a direct result of Widow’s presence.

She’s scary as hell. Peter doesn’t blame the secret super spies when they running for the hills upon sighting her. At all. The one time Peter had seen her in action (from the sidelines, or should he say street light... and the most recent occurance with the monkeys) she had been culling her way through a mass of bad guys in Kevlar. They also parted like the red sea. Emphasis on the red.

It’s taking a fair while to go wherever it is that they are going. Peter eventually lets the woman drag him, giving up on resisting. This is becoming a pattern with these people. Since he’s got some spare time, he counts the weapons that he can find on Widow as she drags him along.

What? It'll be good for his training. Super senses need to go for walkies every now and again too.

By the time they have reached their destination, which happens to be a deserted gym filled with machines that Peter’s never seen in his life (is it still actually a gym?), he has counted five knives, three guns, some sort of wire thingy, six of what Peter assumes (pretty optimistically) are flash bombs and one tazer looking object. Her gloves also have an interesting contraption attached, with wiring that ends up over her knuckles.

Hopefully they’re not for training purposes.

Widow pulls him over to a set of mats on the far side of the room. She then pushes pretty roughly down on his shoulders until he sits his ass down. She takes a seat beside him.

“We’re starting out on flexibility. I like to stretch before exercise, and I want to know your range.”

“Oh, I uh, don’t usually, you know, warm up. There’s not really a whole heap of ti...”

Widow just narrows her eyes at him, and he quickly complies by copying her split stretch. She moves through a number of other basics before getting to the interesting stuff. Peter finds himself intrigued that the Widow is pretty much as flexible as he is. She seems a bit put out that he can match her. Her lips are pursed and her eyes flash challengingly. 

Captain America walks in from an adjoining room to find them in what Peter has dubbed ‘the circus seal crunch.’ It involves having his chin and shoulders as the point of equilibrium as the rest of his body is off the ground. Outstretched arms become the stabilizer for his weight, which would otherwise be held up by his jaw, and therefore not fun, whilst his back and hips make an almost obtuse angle to said chin and shoulders. His legs follow it out and are just as steady as Widow’s. 

They are both eating mat and basically look like bent-in-half seals. Hence the name.

“Uh guys? Are you okay?”

Widow somehow flicks her legs and hips and ends up facing Captain America in a crouch. Peter determines that she must have used the momentum to flip her body upright, but Peter misses it since he’s still paying intimate attention to the plasticy stuff the mat is made out of. He’s also sort of comfortable and doesn’t want to move. This stretch feels amazing.

“Spiderman? Does that hurt?”

“Mmm.” 

Niiiiice stretch mat.

The Captain honestly sounds concerned so Peter gives him a break. He’s not yet got the finesse of the Widow, and instead simply rolls his body to the side until he’s on his back. Hey. It’s lazy but effective.

Captain America offers him a hand. What is with this guy? That's like the third time this week. Peter is wary since last time that didn’t go so well, but he figures that, hey, this stretching stuff has mellowed him out, and grabs for it. 

It kinda has the opposite effect this time, and instead of helping him up, Captain America throws him across the room.

“Oh gee, Spiderman! I am so sorry!”

Peter tempers his fall with a roll, which turns into a somersault, which turns into a handstand. What’s that? No, no. Peter’s not showing off at all.

The Captain still looks like he’s kicked a puppy though, so Peter uses his before unbeknown powers of reassurance.

“No problemo! I’m fine, you’re fine. We’re all fine. And by that, I mean uninjured. Although you guys are fiiine as well. Uh, yeah.” 

Wow, Peter, you’ve still got it. The thing that you never had. Might have had something to do with social competence.

“We’re even Stevens now from the thing with the, uh, stickiness, before.”

The Captain has cracked a smile at this and Peter kinda wants to put a hand out to cover his eyes from the brightness. It burnses us. 

“Since I didn’t get to introduce myself before, hi. My name is Steve. What’s yours?”

Huh. Very school-yard approach. Much friendliness.

“You’ve both seen me without the mask, so I guess I can say that my name’s Peter. By the way, your name would explain where the whole saying ‘even Steven’ came from. Since you’re all wholesome and forgiving and stuff.”

"I mostly agree with the eye for an eye saying.”

“I uh, oh.”

Peter looks at Steve and sees nothing but kind eyes and safety. He glances over at Widow to find that hers are still the opposite of Steve’s. The WIdow's face is blank and she radiates menace like it’s a freakin’ perfume. Au de I Will Kill You. She does, however, have a slight crinkle in her eyes that Peter thinks might be a smile. An eye crinkle smile. Could also be an unfortunate tic.

“He’s mostly kidding,” she tells him.

“Comforting.”

“So. How are his flexibility levels Widow?” The Captain is still looking at him like he’s searching for injuries, so Peter puts his hands above his head in an exaggerated back stretch.

“Acceptable.”

“Peter, would you like to move onto some strength tests? Or battle tactics? The former incorporates some of Tony’s gadgets, while the later will involve taking Widow on in different sparing formations and combat simulations while I act as a supervisor… or overseer I guess.”

“As super-fun as that sounds, which of those will hurt less?”

“Hard to say,” Widow interjects helpfully. Great.

The Captain looks at her with a vague disapproval. She shrugs and stares at Peter some more, awaiting an answer. Peter is really gonna have to get used to people staring at him. It’s still unnerving.

Apparently he’s taking too long to make a decision, as Widow suddenly bursts into action and side-jabs at his ribs. Thank the lord for spidey senses. That probably would have been incredibly painful. 

It is incredibly painful. Turns out the jab had been a series of jabs, which Peter was mostly able to dodge or smack away. Mostly.

Soon the Widow is incorporating more than just jabs, and she’s picked up the speed to a pace that has Peter freaking out just a little under his mask. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but she is not allowing him any luxuries.

“Remember, no gadgets you two.”

Peter had been paying attention to Widow’s arsenal, and he sincerely hopes that Captain America is not referring to the weapons that are strapped all over Widow’s body. He seems pretty anxious to point this out, so Peter’s not overly optimistic. Of course now Peter can’t use his webbing either, which plain sucks since it’s pretty much a natural reaction for him now; he doesn’t fight without it.

Widow is a flurry of movement, but Peter can still see her, so he takes the opportunity to throw a couple of hits in here and there that mostly glance off her. Frustrating. Also, throwing punches apparently means leaving openings. He ends up getting hit in the shoulder, face or chest every time he leans far enough forward to deliver a blow.

One particularly frustrated lunge leaves him with what he knows will be a black eye, and a woman’s thighs around his neck. Oh! This is so a wrestling move. 

“Widow.” Steve is still standing on the sidelines while Peter deals with the weight above him, but he at least has the courtesy to sound concerned. In the split second that Peter spends looking over at him, he notices that he also looks really tense and fidgety.

As the Widow winds up her momentum to flip him to the ground, Peter drops his weight to his knees and bends backwards until the Widow is also on the ground. If he’s gonna end up on the floor anyway, he’d rather it be by his own doing. Tends to hurt less.

Unfortunately this hasn’t dislodged her at all, and he’s still having the air squeezed out of him by the woman’s vice-like legs. Death by thighs. Not a bad way to go. But still, he needs oxygen, yesterday.

He stands from his kneeling position into a backward arch, and flips his legs until his belly is upright in the air and one of his feet lands on Widow’s neck. Haha!

Oh. He’s forgotten that Widow still has full use of her arms, since it’s her thighs that are strangling him. He groans as she wraps her arms around his legs and rolls them until they’re both on their sides, effectively trapping one arm while the other is at an angle that is really quite useless to him.

“Really?” His voice is muffled by thigh. He still manages to successfully express his exasperation.

He’s breathing, which is a plus, but he can’t move. On the bright side, neither can Widow without releasing him, but she is definitely more comfortable than he is.

“Enough.” Steve says from the other side of the room. Peter wholeheartedly agrees; that’s quite enough ass-whooping for one day. He would rather like to go home and lick his wounds now.

He can’t see Widow’s face, but she seems reluctant to let go.

“Do you yield?”

“YES! Yes, I freakin’ yield!” He grunts out, whacking a hand against the ground. 

The breath he is allowed after she releases him and jumps to her feet is somewhat bitter. He lays on the floor filling his lungs for a good couple of moments while the Widow stands over him triumphantly. Okay, Peter might be projecting a bit; she doesn’t really have an expression on her face. She is simply standing next to him.

To his surprise, after a while she sticks her hand out towards him in an offer to help him up. She’s fixed her gaze on the wall to the left of them and is careful not to look at him, but the offer is unmistakable. Peter finds himself cracking a small smile under his mask as he takes the hand. The Widow is a prickly person - a cacti woman really - but maybe she doesn’t hate him.

He wishes he could run a hand through his hair as Steve approaches and claps him on the back. It wasn’t his best display on any account. To be fair, he’s not too badly hurt. His left eye is swelling and he has a multitude of bruises but he’s still in one piece. 

“Well. That was pretty well done son.”

“Uhhh, were you watching? Because I’m pretty sure I’m going up on the superhero wall of shame for this. I lasted about sixty seconds!”

“You lasted fifty-five seconds longer than Tony did the first time we sparred without the suit,” says the Widow, a slight smirk on her face. 

So, she's this gentle with everyone then. Good to know. Also good to know the stuff about Ironman. 

When his eyes make their way back to Steve, the man has a finger on one ear and a far-away look on his face. Peter is reminded that Hawkeye had a little communication device on his person the last time they chatted as well. Maybe that’s how the Avenger’s keep tabs on each other?

“Understood. Head straight home Hawkeye, we will meet you there.”

He presses his earpiece again and the light that Peter can barely see flickers from red to yellow.

“Everyone, report back to base at 14:00.”

There’s a short silence and the Captain’s face is pulling a variety of expressions to do with worry and then exasperation.

“Alright Tony. We’ll be down in twenty minutes.”

Steve seems to focus in on him again as he lowers his hand from his face.

“Looks like we’re cutting this short Peter. I’m sorry. Tony says we may continue some tests at the tower. Will you come?”

“Well you can’t exactly leave me here, can you. I mean, can you?”

“I would really rather not do that, no.”

“Cool. Looks like I’m coming then.”

Peter spins expectantly to locate Widow at his side, but finds that she has disappeared. When he sends a questioning look at Steve, he merely shrugs and about-faces so that he can walk swiftly towards the door. 

Peter catches him pulling a face that he would never expect from Captain America when he reaches the door. It’s pretty scary actually.

“Peter, ceiling please.”

He starts internally at this, but finds that his body has obeyed the Captain’s orders immediately and unconsciously. He is upside-down, twenty feet up, before he’s even noticed. Steve nods once at Peter and makes a ‘follow’ gesture with his hands before he opens the door.

It’s the same sour suits from before.

They look Steve up and down as he exits the room and greets them politely. Two of the three make the attempt to look past him into the room behind him, but it’s hard to look away from Captain America when he’s asking for your attention. Peter takes the opportunity to bullet down the corridor on the ceiling, scuttling as fast as he can until he rounds a corner.

He sticks his head out so he can see if Steve has also gotten away, but the man seems to be arguing with the three old people. His eyes briefly flicker to Peter and Peter frantically waves him over.

The old people are still facing the room and therefore the opposite direction from Peter, so he feels pretty okay doing this. Steve puts a hand up and the three start backing off as he pushes towards them. The door to the room slams shut and Captain America gives the three a solute that Peter would label as mocking before calmly marching down the corridor and turning the corner.

“Hey! What the heck was that?”

“Trust me when I say that you really don’t want to get involved in SHILED politics Peter.”

Peter crinkles his nose at this. Ugh. Politics.

“Come on, Tony wants to drive us back.”

“We’re on a ship.”

“Yup.”

“We’re over a hundred feet in the air. How’s he even gonna get a car up here?”

“I might have expressed my disappointment about a lack of flying cars in the future. Apparently this was deeply and personally offensive to Tony, so he’s been working on it.”

“On flying cars.”

“Yup.”

“Awesome.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the fluff and feels. Seriously.  
> And then I got disgusted with myself and shit hit the fan.  
> Also, I am a horrible human being and don't keep deadlines.

\-----------------

“So Phil’s not dead.”

The avengers minus Thor are spread out around the Stark kitchen. The announcement of Clint’s sarcastic proclamation has each of the six expressing different levels of restraint. 

Tony, who had been halfway through a bowl of cereal, and being the most open with his opinions, starts his usual spiel about SHIELD, spies and secrets with a tone of spite that none of them had heard for quite some time. Not since the whole ‘let’s bomb New York’ thing. 

Natasha paces underneath Clint’s vantage point from on top of the fridge. She snarls some very crude Russian quietly whilst Clint attempts to maintain his uncaring facade. It wasn’t often that the Widow was left out of the loop, although betrayal was something that she knew quite well. Clint was strapped in beside her on that one.

Bruce, being Bruce, was sitting on one of the bar stools and leaning against the marble table, worry lines on his forehead and reasoning on his lips. Bruce always attempts to see the good in everything (except his own damn self) and Clint likes him for it, but he also can't hear him defending SHIELD today, so he mostly blocks him out. 

Steve stares at the blank white wall in front of him in silence, his coffee mug overflowing with black liquid as he ignores the brewer in his hand. His eyes focus in and out as he catches snippets of Stark and Banner’s argument; Bruce's self-depreciating and defensive, Tony's forthright and aggressive. The tightening and loosening of his grip on the coffee jug seems to be working in the same manner as a stress ball. Clint winces as the handle finally snaps off in his hand and the glass hits the edge of the table before smashing on the floor. Steve ignores it.

Grim. Very grim.

He could have maybe been a little less blunt about it. Not that there really was an easy way of telling his teammates that they had been used like naïve children by someone they trusted.

Clint had thought that the lesson that the ones closest to you who own the sharpest and most accurate knives to slide into your back had been hammered home. He had thought that his walls had been high enough - that he had properly guarded himself from that fate. Apparently not well enough.

The only person who isn’t effected by Clint’s words is Spiderman, who is leisurely hanging upside-down from the ceiling by some sort of white rope. He gently swings from side to side like a pendulum as his eyes flick to the people around him. The kid seems nervous and uncomfortable - both of which he can't really be blamed for. Despite his dark thoughts, Clint forcably twitches the side of his lip up as the kid nods jerkily in his direction upon making eye contact. 

Clint is glad to see that he's still here, trailing behind them obediantly.

“Why are you crouching on top of the fridge?”

“Watch it kiddo. You’re hanging by a thread here.”

“Oh very punny.”

Thank god the kid was around.

It had been a six hour return trip to the helicarrier and back as it was further out than Fury usually positioned it. Normally Clint would have hounded him for the reason behind this, as it never spelt good things, but he no longer has the energy. It's still light out but he has hit his wall of today.

He was just tired of it.

“Who’s Phil?”

“Somebody that we used to know.”

“Oh.”

Clint knew he wanted to ask more, and was grateful that the kid seemed to sense that he didn’t want to talk about it. He had probably picked up a bit from the discussion/argument still occuring to the left, but his focus remains steady on Clint and he doesn't pry.

Clint finds himself vaulting to the floor and placing himself beside the kid on pure instinct. The warm, disconcerting feeling from before is back, and Clint jabs the kid in the side to watch him twirl a few times. It makes him feel better.

Peter squawks in indignation as he spins in small circles, but drops down next to him, grumbling lightly. Clint can feel at least two sets of eyes on his back as he drags the kid out of the room by an arm.

Peter mumbles something about not needing a leash as Clint tugs him along, but otherwise makes no comment.

Usually this would be Natasha that Clint would be turning to, but he knows that she’ll want more information, which means recon. It also means that she won’t be in the house.

He pulls Spiderman into one of the guest bedrooms that Stark always has free on the top floors and lets go of his arm so that he can take off his shoes. Spiderman is being unusually docile given their last few encounters and Clint merely eyes him after he crashes onto the bed.

“Sleep. Now.”

“Yup, okay. That sounds like a great idea! You look like you need it. Do you want me to tuck you in?”

Clint rolls his eyes at this and pats the space next to him. Surprisingly, Peter makes no comment as he crosses the room and lays down, content to do as he’s asked for once. Clint takes the opportunity to also relieve the kid of his mask. It’s ridiculous to sleep with it on. How’s the kid gonna breath properly with all that fabric up against his nose and mouth?

Again, Peter doesn’t stop him, and simply looks down on him with something like concern in his eyes. 

Clint settles after curling up a little to keep warm. He doesn’t want under the blankets, because they prevent him from getting up quickly and tend to give him restraining dreams. 

He's acting younger than the kid he's relying on, but somehow, he doesn't feel so bad doing it.

Peter must have a higher temperature than normal people because he can feel his body warmth despite the fact that they’re not touching. Grown man using spiderman as a hot water bottle... completely normal coping mechanism. So normal in fact, that he doesn't stop to think on it for too long. 

He’s almost ashamed at how quickly he falls asleep.

 

 

 

 

Whatever’s going on, Peter doesn’t like it. 

Everybody’s tense and there’s a sleeping Hawkeye beside him with a scrunched up face and a body that’s still not quite relaxed.

What he knows about the situation can be counted on the fingers of one hand and include (a) there’s people at SHIELD that the avenger’s don’t like, (b) some guy named Phil is not as dead as the avengers thought he was, and (c) Hawkeye wants them to sleep together. In a platonic, we’re sort of still strangers’ kind of way. The (d) of this whole shebang is that Peter is willing to do it. Very willing. And kind of honoured about it. Which is definitely weird.

If Hawkeye… If Clint needs to know that there’s somebody with him, Peter is more than happy to lend him some warmth. The guy looks... stressed? Definitely troubled. This somehow makes Peter unhappy.

Clint’s helped him out a couple of times already, so he can’t really begrudge him this. Plus, this way Peter is being useful, rather than the outsider that he kinda is.

While Peter has been worrying and staring at the man's sleeping face, Clint has been edging cautiously towards the sensed warmth in his sleep until his forehead is against Peter’s shoulder. When he notices, Peter throws a casual arm and leg over Hawkeye’s body, and freezes when the archer tenses up. After a few moments Clint’s body is relaxed again, and Peter finds that he is actually truly calm, rather than the slightly rigid sleeper that he was before.

Clint’s still a lot bigger than Peter so he finds that he has to wiggle in closer to close up the gap between his limbs and the mattress. Which also means that more of him is touching Hawkeye.

It’s weird that he immediately likens it to hugging Aunt May when she needs him after a particularly strong recollection of Uncle Ben. She doesn't feel as sad as often anymore, which Peter is infinitely grateful for, but he still has very detailed memories of finding her crying into the couch upholstery and snuggling in next to her as she leaned on him. It was soothing for them both. 

He feels comfortable around the archer in much the same way. Which is very, very odd. He’s known the guy for a few days for Pete’s sake!

He smirks to himself a bit at his. That particular saying was a favourite of his Aunt’s when referring to him, for obvious reasons.

In any case, it is this easy feeling around Clint that has him waking up three hours later, not remembering having gone to sleep. It’s really dark in the room now, having transitioned from late afternoon into night, and Peter is warm and comfortable and still tired.

Clint is still beside him and somehow they’ve swapped positions while he was asleep. Peter now finds himself in a bear hug that has his face smooshed against a slightly bristly neck. He’s can’t really breathe right, which is probably what woke him up.

Luckily, he’s able to wiggle until they’re shifted yet again, and Peter is on his back. He hadn’t been able to dislodge the arms though, so Clint is now spooned up against his side kinda like a child. Peter decides not to tell him about this. 

Ever.

While his right hand is trapped at his side, his left arm is still free… somewhat… and he uses it to rub at his bleary eyes. He’d always been bad at waking up. He feels himself yawning a couple of times and contemplating going back to sleep when a shadow appears from beneath the bed.

“OH MY…” Peter claps a hand over his mouth as the Widow puts a finger to her lips. His gaze skitters to Clint and he breathes a sigh of relief to find that he’s still sleeping.

The Widow is wearing a calculating expression as she eyes them. Peter’s not doing anything wrong but he can still feel a blush mark his unmasked face.

“What were you doing under the bed?” He hisses lowly, trying to keep as quiet as possible. He’s surprised that Clint isn’t awake yet.

“I’m your worst nightmare” she tells him, straight-faced. He thinks he sees a tongue flick out of her mouth, but it’s really dark.

“Please tell me you did not just quote Mulan.”

Widow’s eyes are glinting in a really creepy manner as she crosses the room and lies down on the opposite side of Clint, keeping her back to the both of them.

Peter gets more sleep than he expected.

 

 

 

 

“Huh. Will you look at that. You guys are softies underneath all that hard, crusty exterior.”

Peter finds himself moaning as he yet again wakes to finds people in the room that shouldn’t be in the room.

Tony Stark is smirking down at them from his position at the end of the bed and Peter makes a grunting noise to accompany the uncoordinated waving that he is directing towards the noises.

“Can I get in on this?”

“Go away Stark.” Oh right, Widow is also in the bed. What was that song? There were three in the bed and the little one said…

Peter bends his necks and opens his eyes to a bare squint to see if Ironman has skedaddled, but he’s still there, and he’s still annoying.

“Oh, right, I came down here to tell you that there are people with big guns at the front door. I swear one of them has a flamethrower, which I think is a bit excessive, but you really can’t reason with these people. Steve said something about Nazi flame walls, but I can never tell if he’s being serious. But yeah. Old wrinkly dudes who said they were from the council, and let me tell you that I haven’t defaced public property in years, apart from what fans stick at me to sign, and that they had an arrest warrant for both you and Spidey there, who, unlike me, is young and probably still into graffiti, and then they said that I had to let them in or they'd huff and they'd puff and bladey blah blah. So, up you get.”

“I’m sorry what?”

Peter swears being Spiderman wasn’t this exciting before he met this lot. 

Lies. Such lies.

“Don’t worry. Pepper will stop them.”

“Ugh.” Clint was awake and not happy about it.

“Thaaaaats right Hawky. Out of your nest. Fly and be free!” Tony’s voice had bracketed up a few notches at the end there. Peter covers his head with his pillow to block it all out.

It was way too early in the morning.

“Greetings friends!” booms a voice which echoes from the corridor behind Tony Stark. Despite, the decibals and broken ear drums, ironman's grin broadens.

Why couldn’t his ability have been sinking into the floor? Peter has found himself wishing for that more than a few times over the last few years.

The loud, blonde colossus that must be the missing avenger Peter hasn’t met yet is smiling in a manner that Peter finds disturbingly friendly. Especially when the man approaches him like he would the family’s brand new puppy. He proceeds to pet him on the head and reach into the bed to haul him out by winding a beefy arm around his waist. 

Clint, who had still been attached to Peter, ends up with his torso on the carpet while Peter dangles like a dead possum from Thor’s hip. Unable to telegraph his shock as to Thor’s choice method of toting him, Peter continues to hang limp at the man’s side. A large hand and a hip keep Peter wedged firmly in place.

“Let us depart at once! The naysayers are at our heels.”

Peter could see Hawkeye spluttering as he is spirited from the room, his head and therefore Clint and the room jerking up and down with the god’s run.

“But I haven’t brushed my teeth!”

The god’s laugh is booming and free. Peter can see fire and smoke coming from the first floor as he peers the window that Thor is running beside. They are on the fifty second floor. It is a long way down, and someone is setting fire to parts of the building.

He is in a house filled with crazy people. It's not even a house! It's a freakin skyscraper, stop blowing things up!

Travelling via Thor goes straight on Peter's ‘avoid at all costs’ list when the god throws himself against the glass of said fifty second floor and bursts into the chilly air outside with good humour.

Peter lets out a disbelieving and slightly mollifying noise as they begin to plummet towards their doom.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Peter will admit to screaming like a harpy on the way down. 

Normally, he’s cool with free fall, and technically he still has his webshooters on since he is in the suit (sans the mask, which he was worried about right up until his brain had other things to deal with). But the big, muscly IDIOT just will not let go and even had the gall to tell Peter to stop struggling.

_Oh spider-warrior. Have no fear. I am only taking you to your death. ___

__Okay, so Thor hasn’t exactly said anything, and Peter has made this assumption on the tightening of the huge arm that is wrapped around his stomach, but he should be allowed some snarkiness at this point in his soon to be ended life._ _

__Peter’s face is being pressed against a rock-solid thigh and his body’s automatic response to the freefall has him curled around said arm so that his limbs aren’t flailing around as they plummet towards the ground. He’s not comfortable._ _

__Just before they hit the freakin’ cement, Thor’s hammer comes flying out of nowhere and the god grabs hold, which flings them in another direction as they fly along after it by the power of Thor’s massive, bulgy arm._ _

__Peter would smack the dude if he wasn’t choking on his own goddamn lungs._ _

__As their trajectory tilts upwards, Peter risks a glance back at the Stark tower to find that the big hovercraft thingy that he had been in yesterday with Hawkeye is rapidly ascending towards them. Why couldn’t Peter have taken the plane? He distinctly remembers there being soft, plushy seats._ _

__He barely manages to catch Ironman joining their flight path from the roof-balcony of the tower before Thor’s arm is tightening even further around his waist. Peter squeaks out a small noise of protest. Embarrassing._ _

__Another thing to add to the ‘never shall I ever do again’ list. Thor hugs. Just Don’t Do It._ _

__Peter bites down hard on his tongue as they land jarringly in what looks like a park. Dirt flies up to hit him in the face as they crash past a few trees. Peter whines at the stinging in his mouth as he spits out some of the coppery stuff on the grass._ _

__Thor rights himself and lets the hammer drop to the ground. It seems pretty valuable so Peter finds this practice somewhat questionable. He wouldn't drop his web-shooters on the ground like a pair of shoes. Oh wait, he does that on a regular basis as he flings his suit into different hiding places in his room. Thor uses both hands to manoeuvre Peter until he is able to lift him up by the armpits. Peter hunches his shoulders and scowls._ _

__“Well. That was just plain rude.” He rubs his fingers on his suit before shrugging and sticking them in his mouth to assess the damage. His eyes water a bit as he finds the small cut and runs a finger along it. Also, there's a considerable amount of what he's hoping is dust left-over on his gloves from climbing on ceilings. No one ever dusts up there._ _

__“I apologise little one. I am not familiar with the etiquette of your spiderman race. I have become somewhat familiar with the expectations of midguardians, but no one informed me that another people resided on your ‘earth.’ Thus I am woefully ignorant as to how your standards may differ.”_ _

__“My ‘standards’ are fairly normal in the fact that I don’t like being carried like a prized Chihuahua. Throwing me out a window wasn’t that much fun either. What’s a midguardian?”_ _

__“It is what our race calls those who dwell here on earth. I believe I’ve been informed that you prefer the term ‘human being.’ This makes little sense to me as we are all ‘beings’ of one kind or another. But no matter.”_ _

__“I am also human. I know, amazing.”_ _

__“Ah, so you are of mixed parentage? That would explain your lack of spider-like appendages. I have found the creatures called ‘spiders’ to be quite interesting. Added appendages are greatly useful in battle.”_ _

__“Uh, no.”_ _

__Ewww. Thank god he hadn’t gotten any of the more… disturbing aspects when he accidently got bitten by a potentially lethal spider back when he was sixteen._ _

__Thor looks like he wants to ask more questions of the small creature he has lifted before him, but Peter is saved as Ironman lands heavily beside them._ _

__“What the hell do you think you two are doing?” He asks as his faceplate lifts up. “I thought the plan was to abandon ship. This is not abandoning ship. This is barely leaving the general vicinity of the sinking ship. We are in danger of getting hit by shattered and burning debris of that abandoned ship. Seriously, Thor, buddy, can we go now?”_ _

__“Why did we abandon ship in the first place? Not that I am approving of this blatant overuse of the boat metaphor.”_ _

__“Eh, Steve doesn’t like it when I blow up the government. You know, Captain America, patriot, goody-two-shoes… Yeah. We couldn’t fight them, coz apparently that’s not allowed, but we can ignore them and their big shiny guns by pretending we’re not in. Or in this case, by running for the hills upon sighting the flamethrower.”_ _

__Thor is still smiling like this is a normal day for him. Peter kicks his legs from their suspended position in an attempt to encourage the god to let go of him. Thor’s smile gets wider and his eyes light up as Peter wriggles. He turns pleading eyes to Ironman, but Tony just smirks at him._ _

__“Come on then, JARVIS is waiting for us in Malibu. The house is on the cliff edge. You can’t miss it. Race you?”_ _

__The faceplate slides back into place as Thor nods once in acquiesce. Ironman reaches over to ruffle Peter’s hair once before he takes off with yet another spray of dirt which Peter is going to have to clean out of his suit._ _

__Thor proceeds to tuck him back under his arm while he swipes up his hammer and spins it in fast circles with his other hand. Before Peter can properly process that he’s back to being a handbag, Thor has them off the ground and flying past an indignant Ironman and after a blurry shape which Peter identifies as the invisible Avengers hovercraft._ _

__He is so going to need a hairbrush after this._ _

__

__

__

__Peter really shouldn’t have been surprised when Thor finally lands in the driveway of Tony’s second ‘house.’ The man was ridiculous. Who builds a house on a cliff? WHO? The whole thing made him slightly queasy. It could easily end up in the ocean. A little known fact about spiders, that was actually PRETTY FREAKIN’ OBVIOUS, is that most of them don’t like water. More specifically, being IN water._ _

__Peter could swim, barely. Aunt May had made him learn, which seemed like a good idea at the time, and would have been great fun, if he wasn’t so bad at it. When Gwen was around, she had jokingly told him that his swimming ability was about the same as a cross-eyed giraffe upside-down and out of its depth._ _

__To be fair, he did a fair amount of thrashing about with his limbs, and his coordination, which had so drastically improved, went flying out the window when faced with the water nemesis. He also lost the ability to move in a forward direction._ _

__He looked like a drowned rat whenever he got out, sodden and sullen._ _

__Spiderman did not do water._ _

__So, if this house/mansion/mausoleum went crashing into the ocean, Peter was screwed. And not in a fun way. In a dead way._ _

__Thor finally deigns to release him onto the driveway and Peter finds himself dropping and hugging the ground. He spends five seconds doing this (Peter loves the ground) before standing and putting as much distance between himself and Thor as possible. This means that he has a lovely view of the helicraft as it lands in the middle of the circular driveway of Tony’s holiday house._ _

__Clint, Widow, Steve and Dr. Banner exit the craft together in differing levels of undress. Clint is still looking fuzzy with sleep, which is concerning since he had been the one flying the aircraft. He also happens to be one of the few of them still in uniform, albeit a sleeveless one, as he had literally fallen into bed with Peter last night._ _

__Widow somehow looks like her everyday, baddass self, despite the fact that Peter knows that she had been wearing pyjamas when she had gotten into bed last night. He also swears that the leather jacket she is now wearing had been on the couch of the rec room, four floors down and in the opposite direction of the aircraft hanger.  
Dr. Banner probably hadn’t slept when they had all been alerted to the problem, as he is still wearing a white lab coat. It reminds Peter of Oscorp and a certain mentor. He quickly switches his attention to Steve, and wishes he hadn’t._ _

__The man is wearing tracksuit pants and a really thin, really tight singlet that goes well with his bare feet. The cold doesn't seem to bother him.__

 _ _They are near the ocean. The wind is frigid. Captain America looks perfectly comfortable.__

__Peter's spidey senses give a slight twinge and he whirls around to find Thor casually him as the others move into the house._ _

__“Oh no. I don’t think so. I can cart my own butt around, thank you very much.”_ _

__Was that… was Thor pouting? Peter narrows his eyes deliberately at the god, which he is sure to see since Peter STILL DOESN’T HAVE HIS MASK, before he walks through the door that Clint is holding open for him._ _

__Once again he finds himself in what he supposes is a living area, but is really the size of his entire residence. The avengers are gathering and plopping themselves into random couches and other things useful for sitting, getting ready for a group meeting. Seemed pretty common place. Strangely domestic for a bunch of people who could singularly take over the world (arguably already had)._ _

__Peter immediately decides that the ceiling is the obvious and comforting neutral ground and immediately repositions himself upside-down in his most comfortable position on the ceiling. This means that he is leaning back on his elbows and crossing his legs in front of him like he is sitting casually on the ground, rather than on the ceiling. It's lucky that it takes a really long time for the blood to rush to his head, otherwise this would be very uncomfortable few minutes. He can keep this position for ages; hours, really, if Thor keeps it up, and Peter has no intention of being reattached to that hip._ _

__“So.” The Captain is the first to break the silence that everyone had trudged into the room. The man is portraying body language that seems to be a mix of exasperation and annoyance. Peter has noticed him wearing it quite often. “What’re we going to do about this mess?”_ _

__“SHIELD can’t directly interfere with the council’s orders again. After New York they’ve had Fury on a tight leash. This could have potential correlation with the Coulson issue.” The Widow stares directly at Clint as she says this, but he keeps his eyes averted and doesn’t acknowledge her point, remaining stonily silent._ _

__“So we keep running then," Dr. Banner says in a resigned lilt in his voice. The man seems a little saddened by his own words._ _

__“We lie low for now. I’m sorry about your tower Tony. Although, I’m afraid we have another problem. Peter?”_ _

__Peter looks down from where he had been edging slowly toward Clint and further away from Thor, who is leaning against the wall near the door, to find six sets of eyes on him. He gives them a little wave._ _

__“Peter, where are your parents?”_ _

__Curse Captain America and his ability to glean answers from people. Stupid, sincere eye stares and crooning. Damn._ _

__“I, uh, live with my Aunt.”_ _

__“Right, well, is she cool with you not being around?” Ironman asks from beside the Captain._ _

__Wow. Who woulda’ thought that Tony Stark had some tact. Peter had honestly been expecting a ‘why’ or ‘where are they then’ from someone. Peter remembers reading something about Tony’s dad somewhere. He didn’t really seem to be in the Tony Stark picture frame though. For now it seems that Peter isn’t going to have to explain how many people have died from extreme exposure to Peter Parker. Yippee._ _

__“She… doesn’t much enjoy the disappearing act, no. But I’m an adult.”_ _

__“Is the little spider warrior correct in this? I am unsure of the age at which your race considers itself to have been released from juvenile labels.”_ _

__“I’m nineteen. I'm legal, I promise.”_ _

__“He’s a kid.”_ _

__Thanks for that Hawkeye. Very helpful._ _

__“Why is this so difficult for you to grasp? I am part of your cool, adult club. I've even gotten shot at and everything. Proof that I’m an adult.” (Peter's not gonna bring up the fact that he was being shot at long before he was legally an adult)._ _

__Peter notices Steve wincing. “Yeah, we’d really rather that didn’t happen Peter.”_ _

__“Tell that to the guy with the gun. I’m not exactly shooting myself here. But yeah. I should probably at least call my Aunt. She can get… finicky. It’s just the two of us now.”  
Oh, probably shouldn’t have said that bit. Whoops. Not helping his big boy image._ _

__Peter starts as his hand whips out to grab at something that is sailing through the air towards him. It's a phone._ _

__“Use mine,” Stark huffs at him as he heads towards the kitchen to rifle through the fridge, Thor hot on his heels. Peter has no trouble navigating the phone despite the complexity of it and punches in his Aunt’s number, knowing that since she's home from her shift she’ll either be cooking or doing the washing like the laundry sheriff she is._ _

__She doesn’t pick up._ _

__Peter tries again, feeling his heart sink as the phone rings through again. May always picks up when she’s home, and she’s always up and about by lunch since she works the nightshift at the hospital and sleeps through the morning. She should be picking up._ _

__He drops to the ground and stares at the phone. He’s already made up his mind. They’re not going to be happy._ _

__“I need to go.”_ _

__“Bathroom’s downs the hall,” Tony informs him through his first mouthful of sandwich._ _

__How is Peter going to get back to New York? He can’t exactly take the train since he’s left his wallet in his other suit. He cycles through his options while his eyes graze over the small screen in front of him as it rings through again. No one knows that he is spiderman. Therefore Aunt May should be safe. Right?_ _

__Peter can feel the fear slowly roll into his chest, hot and hard and choking. He can’t lose Aunt May. He can’t._ _

__No. He won’t._ _

__He places the phone softly on the ground and starts forward with determination. To his immense displeasure there is a body blocking his way. He makes to push past it, only to find that Clint’s voice is telling him something, and an object is being pushed into his hands. He looks up in confusion, and Hawkeye holds his eyes before repeating himself._ _

__“Wear this.”_ _

__There’s a pair of jeans in his hands and a black sweater draped over his shoulder. Peter widens his eyes and gives a slight nod as he realises that Hawkeye is helping him. Clint pushes him in the direction that Tony had pointed out before. Peter finds himself numbly trudging into a porcelain bathroom. He glances around quickly before stripping out of his costume, pulling on the skinny jeans with only minor difficulty. He's lucky that he's ... slight, because these jeans are small. Where the hell had Hawkeye picked these up? He hasn’t been provided a t-shirt, but it’s unnecessary as he pulls the sweater over his bare chest._ _

__He lets himself out quietly, thinking about where he’s going to find shoes so that he’s not walking around like Steve, when another item of clothing is shoved at him. Peter stares at the volleys in his hand as Clint tugs a cap over his unruly blonde hair. He quickly bends to slip them on, not bothering to tie the laces and instead slipping them into the shoe._ _

__“Come on then.”_ _

__Peter isn’t sure what to say as he and Hawkeye sneak away from the others. Why is Clint helping him? He will probably be in a whole lot of trouble for this. Especially from a certain fiery red-head. Who is letting them go, apparently, because this is way too easy._ _

__“Dunno about you, but I like my friends and family alive. It's damn troublesome at times, and sometimes they hate you for it, but family is family, and I got your back, kid.”_ _

__Apparently Clint is getting pretty good at reading him. Unfortunately his words aren’t exactly reassuring._ _

__“What about the others?”_ _

__“They aren't going to be particularly pleased when they find out. Because this is a really stupid plan. But meh. I'm bound to end up doing something dumb at some point anyway. May as well help you out in the process.”_ _

__The man really needed to work on his comforting skills. They are decidedly lacking._ _

__Peter realises where Clint is leading them at about the same moment that he spots the hovercraft._ _

__“Nat is going to kill me for this,” Peter can hear Clint mumble as they jog up the ramp. Maybe Clint was supposed to wait for her or something?_ _

__Hawkeye quickly seals the doors and puts the craft in the air just as a dark, feminine figure marches out the front door. Peter is surprised that the craft doesn’t burst into flame through the force of the glare. He’s also surprised that the aeroplane/spaceship still has fuel._ _

__“Uh, not to be a downer or anything, but what about Tony and Thor?”_ _

__“I may, or may not have drugged them. Just a little.”_ _

__“Oh right, well then. Better hurry. Not looking forward to that lecture any time soon.”_ _

__“Me neither kid. Me neither.”_ _

__“I’m not even gonna ask how you did it. I’m starting to just accept your ninja skills.”_ _

__“You do get some special ninja skill if you spend any time at all around Nat and she likes you. I mostly learnt that espionage shit from her. Gave me a few boo boos along the way, but totally worth it.”_ _

__Peter thinks on this in silence as they head back towards New York. He is cheered slightly by the fact that at least the return trip is a bit more comfortable than their original escape._ _

__As they reach the outskirts of the city a thought occurs to Peter._ _

__“Where are you gonna land this thing? Because I can tell you right now that we don’t have a driveway… which wouldn’t matter anyway because this is freakin’ massive and would probably crush my house.”_ _

__“Parking lot.”_ _

__Oh. Peter supposes that makes sense. There’s actually an abandoned one underneath an elevated highway not too far from his house. He points it out to Clint as they pass it, and Peter’s pretty impressed with the guy’s ability to squeeze the oversized aircraft in without taking out a few of the pillars around them._ _

__As soon as the ramp is lowered Peter is racing off down the block towards his house, determined to make sure that Aunt May is okay. Aunt May must always be okay. Clint looks unruffled and blank as he keeps pace, matching Peter’s frenzied sprinting. They must surely make an odd pair to the pedestrians they pass on the street, but Peter can’t really find it in himself to care._ _

__He comes to an abrupt halt as he clears the steps up to the front door, suddenly reluctant to uncover whatever is inside._ _

__He retrieves the key from the familiar loose brick beneath the doorbell just as Clint steps up behind him. The hand on the small of his back is warm and Peter takes a deep breath as he pushes the key into the lock._ _

__It’s quiet. Peter doesn’t like it. He also doesn’t like that with every step he takes into the house, the more his spidey senses tell him to turn back. The prickling in his brain is painfully distracting._ _

__“Aunt May?”_ _

__As he steps into the kitchen his head explodes with noise, and his body reacts before he can gather himself to think about it. There are men in his Aunt’s kitchen. There shouldn’t be strange men in his Aunt’s kitchen._ _

__They all jump him at the same time and Peter finds himself winding one dude with a snapping kick to the stomach while simultaneously breaking another dude’s nose. Usually, he’s not this violent, and likes to end things by simply incapacitating his opponents. There’s a buzzing in his ears and he can’t concentrate through the pain lacing through his brain as his senses inform him that he is in some real danger. Thanks spidey senses. He got that memo. You know, since he’s being attacked and all. Tone it down now. But it doesn’t tone down, and Peter finds himself panicking._ _

__The bad guys aren’t backing off despite his lashing out, and Peter would really like his space now, please and thankyou. When the baddies begin whipping out guns, Peter finds himself using moves that he had observed from the Black Widow. He drops his body and smashes his feet into the backs of knees with a strength that snaps bones. He uses every bit of his body to his advantage, incorporating headbutts and elbow jabs and other moves that he would normally consider dirty. Peter doesn’t like causing pain, but he does it._ _

__Today he doesn’t care._ _

__Spiderman is fast, which means that Aunt May’s walls are the things that end up getting holes blown through them as the men aim their silenced guns at the black blur that is Peter in his skinny jeans._ _

They seem surprised to see a young person bouncing around the place, but still aim and take shots at him. This worries Peter greatly. He could be any old person. Well, he is displaying some slightly unbelievable skills for a normal person to have, but still. 

__It is only when Peter falls back into his familiar fighting stance that the fight ends. In the frenzy Peter forgets that since he’s not in the suit, he doesn’t have his web shooters. This means that when he ducks into a crouch and goes to shoot some webbing at one of the few men left, he find s himself with a gun pointed towards at his face, and an unwebbed villain standing in front of him. He is also, somewhat embarressingly, now pointing weirdly with his fingers at the man who is about to end his life__

 _ _Peter stills, his whole body going rigid as the nozzle presses into the flesh of his forehead. The gun is smoking slightly with missed shots, and he can feel it burn a small circle as the man presses it more harshly against his brow.__

__There’s a crash from the other room as Hawkeye finishes his fight and bursts into the kitchen. One look at Peter has him dropping the knives that he must have had stashed somewhere on his person._ _

Shit. Peter's fucked up. Again.

__The two other men that Peter failed to take out advance on Clint. They each put a hand on a shoulder and push the man to the ground, forcing him onto his stomach. Clint grunts at the manhandling, but doesn’t resist as they wrench his hands behind his back and handcuff him._ _

__Peter locks eyes with the man who still has the barrel of his gun pressed against his face. He stares at the man in defiance even as the gun moves from his face to slam into his solar plexus._ _

__Peter crumples._ _


	12. Chapter 12

Phil Coulson is not happy.

Someone has skipped procedure. A mistake has been made, a considerably catostrophic blunder if the aftermath is anything to go by, and it's once again going to be up to Phil to rectify it. Why this is still a surprise at this point, Phil has no idea. Really. He couldn’t ask for one competent successor. One. Not only has there been a complete lack of agents capable of taking over his job as Avenger babysitter, but someone (Nick Fury) hadn’t followed his VERY CLEAR instructions to, should he live, inform the people closest to him that he isn’t, in fact, dead.

Dead is dead. Not dead is not dead. 

It's not exactly rocket science.

And now, upon his second day after returning to duty, he finds that a secret body of powerful people who consider themselves to be the ‘World’s Representatives,’ are effectively pissing all over the idea of superheroes, which Phil has personal issue with, and enforcing a ‘peace’ that is really beginning to rankle him.

When did ‘drop a bomb on it’ become a viable solution to any problem? Well... any SHIELD problem in any case.

He’s sitting behind his desk at SHIELD, staring down a mountain of computerised paperwork and glaring at the few people who come through his door until they make themselves scarce. The two people that he actually wants to talk to won’t talk to him. In fact, he hasn’t seen Clint or Natasha in a few days now. Probably sulking around the tower… which Phil is actively avoiding.

From the way that they’re acting, you’d think that he deliberately impaled himself on a giant magical spear from outer space. Ridiculous. Because he didn’t. Not at all. 

He did not in any way encourage that incident. He could not be blamed for it. 

What came after… well, that he couldn’t blame Loki for.

So he’s unhappy at Nick for not telling them, but he’s even more unhappy with himself for not taking the steps required to contact them. He could have. After the first few months of surgery. He hadn’t been fully recovered, but he was lucid. He could have called. A letter would have been better than not attemtping anything. 

But he didn’t.

He hadn’t known that they would react like this.

Phil needed to get his head on straight. Re-work out his priorities. He feels like everything in his head and his life has been muddled irreversibly. He can't quite grasp the same level of professionalism that he once had now that he knows what it is to completely lose everything. It's a slippery thing that he's not sure he wants to catch in any case. It feels much colder than it once had. 

Experiencing a compromised Barton had brought to light something that he had been nursing for quite some time. Something so obvious. Something that he’d rather not think about, and had therefore had never really considered. 

Even before Loki, Phil had been crossing professional boundaries with Clint Barton. He could see himself doing it, had known that he should really not be doing it, but had done it anyway. The man had a talent for needling his way into people’s lives. What this whole incident has brought to light is that Phil is now incapable of living his life without him. 

Had he known this beforehand, he would have made different choices. 

Phil doesn’t look inwardly very often. Phil looks out for others. That’s his job. So no, he hadn’t known.

Funny how death makes you realise your life's desires.

Now his… interests are definitely not where they should be. He still cares about his work. Previously he had put it above all else; including his own personal needs and wants. 

Adding to his conflict is the fact that Clint is actively avoiding him. It is incredibly difficult to find Hawkeye when he doesn’t want to be found, even for Phil Coulson. Before, he could sense him somewhat, could guess… but he can admit that normally Clint wants Phil to know where he is.

Judging from the state of Nick’s desk, Clint doesn't want to speak to him right now. It had actually been quite impressive. Phil must remember to add javelin throw to Clint’s list of talents.

Thinking of this is not constructive. Phil has had plenty of time for that. Months in fact. Time for action. And really, Phil’s always been better at that anyway.

 

 

 

Peter awoke slowly but progressively, much to his chagrin. He could already feel pain in his drowsy ‘not quite awake’ mind, and focused all of his attention into staying asleep. As per usual, it didn’t work.

Oh, right, that would be because the bad guys clobbered him over the head and trussed him up in a fashion straight out of a Tintin comic. That fictional character should definitely have brain damage if this is what it felt like… He is in like twenty comics! And he gets smacked upside the head and kidnapped in basically every single one!

Kidnapped. Wonderful. Focusing on relevant problems now. Where was he?

Upon opening his eyes he finds that he is on a bed. He is not alone on said bed. A familiar arm is wrapped around his shoulders, which hinders Peter’s ability to assess the shitstorm that he now finds himself in.

The arm is not unwelcome however, as it attached to a very concerned Clint who appears to be shielding him from the dangers of an empty room - with his body.

“What’s going on?” Peter mumbles, trying to escape the arm so that he can rub his eyes.

Clint tenses around him once before he lets go and rolls into a seated position. His back is facing Peter. Peter finds his chest pinching at the fact that Clint seems unable to retain a completely upright position. He is hunched over to one side and breathing shallowly. From his own past injuries and experience, Peter predicts cracked, if not broken, ribs.

“Merry Christmas; we’re in prison.” Clint tells him in monotone.

“I don’t think it’s Christmas.”

Peter gets a small quirk of the lips for his effort.

Now that Clint’s body is blocking less of the view, Peter determines that they are in a small cement box, and he is lying on one of the two small, bed-like structures in the room. On the bed is a thin, white sheet that has been bleached enough that Peter wonders whether it will erode his skin. Ugh. Still… more than what he thought he’d be getting in prison. Not that he wanted to end up in prison... but it was a distinct possibility rattling around in the back of his head. Vigilantism is illegal after all.

It’s not until his eyes reach the corner of the room that he really starts to panic.

“Is that a dead guy over there?”

Clint shrugs his shoulders and makes a non-committal noise that makes Peter wanna punch him. Very softly.

“Are you serious right now? You’re not being serious right now.”

Clint turns and starts patting him on the head like he needs soothing or something.

“Don’t worry about it kid. I’ve got this, you’ll be fine.”

He then makes to lie back down next to Peter and mumbles something about going back to sleep.

“Oh no. I think not. I am not sleeping while I consciously know that there’s a dead guy in the room. We are not leaving him in a crumpled heap in the corner like he’s a T-shirt from two days ago.”

Clint huffs out a sigh and raises his eyebrows at him. “So what… you’re gonna lay him out so that he is more obviously a dead guy in the corner?” 

“Nope, we are putting him on that bed over there so I can pretend that he’s just sleeping.”

“But he’s dead.”

“Yes, thankyou Clint, I hadn’t realised, what with all the blood and the general grossness and the not being alive.” Peter’s voice had definitely gone up a few octives by the end of the sentence and he feels a bit bad when he notices Clint’s wince.

“Alright, no need to shout, geez.”

Clint helps him out of bed even though Peter really thinks it should be the other way around, and they both gingerly approach the opposite corner of the room.

“Awww Peter no, this is gross" says Clint, wrinkling his nose.

And indeed it is. The guy hadn’t died neatly, and is wearing some sort of red and black leotard that makes Peter question what is blood and what is not blood. 

A fair amount of it is blood. 

He has numerous bullet wounds; at least four that have gone through his chest, and there’s a nasty red line that has cut through the fabric, skin and muscle on the left side of the guy’s throat. Peter shudders at the overkill. There at least six fatal injuries that he can spot from this position. 

The smell is also pretty awful. 

He crinkles his nose as he makes a grab for the shoulders, and Clint grumbles a bit as he hefts up the guy’s legs. Peter, being spiderman, has no trouble with the weight but Hawkeye has to look out for his ribs and the dead guy has some bulk on him, so they manage an awkward crab shuffle towards the other side of the room where the second bed structure resides.

They successfully swing the dude onto the bed using his dead weight (ha pun) as momentum, and Peter feels himself emitting a slight blush as he notices Clint’s smirk as he tucks red leotard man in. He also makes sure that the man who is definitely not dead is facing the wall, and therefore not him while he sleeps. It’s kinda like that one time when he found that creepy painting with the face that always seemed to be looking at him. He had had to put a blanket over it to resolve the creepiness. Unnerving.

Clint ruffles his hair as they both trudge back to the empty bed. Peter might be in shock, because he falls asleep almost immediately, thankful for Clint’s warmth.

 

 

 

Clint is not a massive fan of prison. 

Orange is not his colour. Not that he's wearing orange but the basic principle still applies. 

Unsurprisingly, he does have some familiarity with them, although juvenile detention is a little different to this. He learnt pretty quick how to stay out of prison after that. 

What he can pull from his knowledge base it that there’s a good chance that this is not a normal prison. Clint hasn’t seen any guards yet, and he’s been up for a good fifteen hours. They also haven’t fed them.

Them. There’s another difference to the last time he was behind bars. Clint doesn’t like that Peter is in here with him. Himself he might be able to understand. He gets why he deserves to be chucked away where he can’t see the sun anymore. He’s not perfect, he’s done some bad things. His most recent stack of ‘bad things’ had been when he was Loki’s bitch, but no one is gonna accept mind control as a defence. And really, he let Loki touch him, so he’s at fault there anyway.

But Peter. Peter should not be here. He’s obviously a good kid and their captors really have no excuse for locking him away right next to Clint, who has a bottomless ledger and a lot of pent up rage.

He tightens his hold on the kid as he remembers the brief moment of fear when the men in Peter’s house had dragged them into this place after about five hours worth of manhandling. They had passed through seven doors (Clint had counted) before the bags over their heads had been removed and Peter had been hauled off into a separate room. 

The kid had still been unconscious and Clint had earned himself a few extra bruises as he fought to get to him.

He himself had then been moved through a few rooms and stripped of his clothes, including his favourite pair of jeans, and sprayed with some kind of giant hose before being handed back the clothes he had been wearing before, sans all of his hidden knives and other such object he combined to make weapons.

Halfway through dressing a limp and bare body had been thrown at his feet. Clint had vibrated with anger as he pulled Peter into his own clothes. The guards had then kindly escorted them to their current room, thrown Peter onto a bed and smirked at Clint, who had been growling at them (because showing defiance had always done him big favours), before leaving.

He had promptly taken a defensive position plastered at Peter’s side for the next twelve hours, upon which Peter finally woke up.

He had to admit that moving the body in the corner had not been at the top of his list of priorities, but he had humoured the kid.

He would do as much as he could to keep him safe and happy. Well, at least safe. Broken ribs have never stopped him before.

Prison life is looking to be pretty fucking dismal.


	13. Chapter 13

Peter jerks awake to the unpleasant sensation of an increasingly loud buzzing in his head. As the last few days have gone swimmingly for Peter so far, he makes the logically sound assumption that something Very Bad is about to happen. Capitals to emphasize.

Waking up to his spidey sense going haywire is never a pleasant experience, and usually ended with either an unfortunate amount of blood missing from his body or an elongated period of time where he had to remain plain old Peter Parker to avoid suspicion. Or, you know, death.

He winces as a particularly sharp bolt flashes behind his eyes and amends his statement from bad to completely fucked.

Sometimes he wonders whether this whole spidey sense thing is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Is knowing something bad is going to happen going to stop said bad thing from happening? Probably not. Wow, prison is really leaching the fun out of everything.

Since plan A on avoiding bad predicted thing from happening usually included sprinting in the other direction until his brain stopped twitching, Peter promptly moves on to plan B, which is not nearly as attractive and consists mainly of ‘proper defensive positions.’ This basically means spending a lot of time on the ceiling, possibly avoiding getting shot. The problem with plan B is that there is not really a lot of ceiling to navigate, since the cell Peter is currently inhabiting is fairly small. Especially so when it also has two other bodies in it. This is the second problem with plan B, since one of these bodies belongs to Clint, whom he very much wants to stay alive. 

Peter can feel his adrenalin increasing the longer he dallies, trying to make a decision. His increasing heart rate has him panting in order to keep up, his lungs quickly matching the beat of his heart. Since two is definitely better than one, Peter shakes the shoulder next to him and feels pretty gratified when Clint’s body tenses. At least someone is somewhat prepared. 

Hawkeye shoots Peter a curious look before his eyes harden in understanding. Clint proceeds to roll from the bed and stalk towards the door. The man's body had sprung to immediate wakefullness, a skill which Peter is a little envious of. Clint makes a complicated hand gesture at Peter as he presses his body to the wall at the right of the door. What the hell is that supposed to mean? The duck flew into the room next door, walked around in a circle and then left? Peter doesn't have any training in hand signals. He tries to communicate this to Clint with his overly confused expression, but he's not looking at him anymore.

He can hear boots thudding towards them now and, at Clint’s nod, slides to the ground in a crouch. There is a lot of thudding. Whatever Clint had meant to say with super secret sign language made for spies is gonna have to wait until later.

They both tense as the key slides into the door and the awful sound of a click echoes through the room.

Peter doesn’t like to admit when he’s scared, but this is definitely one of those moments. He can feel the panic he’s been struggling to keep from showing begin to take hold as his hands start to tremor. He can keep it back though. It’s such a little thing. He will keep it back. He’s no help to Hawkeye if he can’t swallow this down. Doesn’t make the weight in his belly any lighter though.

The door swings open and Clint incapacitates the first man with a jab to the throat before he’s even made it through the door. Must be one of his favored moves. The dude crumples. The two behind him jump over his body as they rush into the room. They seem a bit shocked that the two of them still want to fight back despite being roughed up not two days previously. Thye are also obviously hoping to take Clint with sheer force. 

Peter notes with a grimace that they have both had one too many protein shakes. The two look like professional weight lifters, judging by the size of their arms. Arms that look to be at least the size of his thigh, if not bigger. They also happen to be a head taller than Clint. Peter promptly dubs them beefcake one and two.

Despite the broken rib(s?), Clint holds his own, deflecting as many of the bludgeoning punches as he can. He mostly uses his lower body to attack; sticking feet and knees into soft spots as his upper body protects from the blows raining down on him. 

Peter, feeling useless on the floor, launches himself at the back of beefcake one. The two are distracted by Clint. The bad news is that they are quickly realising the man's weak spot – the left side of his ribcage.

All those years watching the Avengers mean that Peter doesn’t feel guilty at all when he uses a trademark Widow move. He's sensing a bit of a pattern here. He manoeuvres beefcake one with the strength of his thighs, which he has hooked around the man's neck, to kind of... steer him in the opposite direction of Hawkeye. He grabs purchase of the mans shoulders as he disengages his thighs and completes a 180 degree backflip to plant his feet squarely in the middle of beefcake's back, launching himself off the large surface area and onto the ground. He makes sure to fold his body as he lands on his back, using the momentum to spring back to his feet.

Peter’s unexpected strength has the guy crashing forward into the bed in front of him. It coincidently has a recent corpse on it which no doubt stinks quite a bit.

Beefcake one groans, but, being a professional, promptly gets his feet back under him and turns to face Peter head on. 

While Peter might be stronger than Clint, he certainly does not have the fighting experience that he has and decides instead to play to his strengths. Actually, he's suprised he managed to mimick that Widow move so well - he's only practiced it a few times, and not all of them were successful. Despite his best intentions to use his skill for this fight, he and beefcake One end up grappling like sumo wrestlers.

Clint, on the other side of the very small room, takes a moment to appreciate the ridiculousness that is Peter, essentially a scrawny teenager, grappling with a man at least three times his size, as he continues to deflect the blows from the man that is circling him. Peter is, impossibly, gaining the upper hand in the impromptu sumo match.

A well placed jab has Clint snapping his attention back to his own fight as his body curls to the right in an attempt to protect itself. He snarls at the pain and wishes he had thought to strap on Nat’s knife when he originally followed the kid. Ah well. Probably would have searched him for it anyway. They had taken his smaller daggers, darts and quiver, so it stood to reason. 

Fighting hand to hand sucked when injured though.

As Clint and Peter narrowed their focus to their separate fights, they both failed to notice a slim figure step gracefully over the body in the doorway and stop to aim a small black device.

Clint felt two small needles in the back of his shoulder as he brought his arms up to block a blow meant for his nose. Within seconds his body started convulsing.

Peter witnessed this over the shoulder of beefcake One, who he had been slowly shoving towards the door. Clint dropped to the ground, still twitching. Peter's momentary shock had beefcake Two coming in through his blindside and hauling him over his shoulder. His yelp turned into a growl as the woman jabbed him in the back of the thigh with the black thing, which Peter was quickly discovering was some kind of enhanced tazer.

He grit his teeth through the convulsions. Oh hell no. Peter gasped in a few breaths and wrapped his arm around the thick neck beside him. He slowly tightened it in an attempt to block off the man’s airway.

Apparently that wasn’t going to stand with the other two, who had some sort of bad-guy loyalty, as he was tazered again by the blank-faced woman. Whoppee for supervillian comradery. The female frowned when he once again rode through the uncontrollable twitching. He repaid their kindness by making a good go at poking Beefcake's eye out. Gross liquidy stuff and all. Beefcake Two roared and Beefcake One, who Peter had forgotten about, stunned him with a punch to the face. It is very effective. 

His eyes water and he can't seem to focus very well. Probably a minor concussion. 

The female sighs and motions to Beefcake One as the man holding Peter cups his eye with his free hand. Beefcake One grabs both of Peter's wrists in one massive fist and raises his body. The weird positioning is forcing a crink into his back. It also feels vaguely... kinky which is really gross. He's not that light is he? Maybe he does need to start eating better. Still, he can't let this stand, so he swings his feet up to join his hands and starts pulling. The woman crinkles her nose as she pulls out a needle that looked like it should be used on a horse. Ugh, Peter hates needles. She steps in front of the three of them and plunges it directly into Peter’s chest, which is now exposed after having had his legs pulled on by beefcake one.

Peter hears himself whimper as Beefcake Two lets him go. He flops back against a chest as a chill sweeps through his body, and for the third time in as many days, (is it the third time? Concussion could definitely be a thing, even with super healing) he falls into darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Peter is very rudely woken to the feeling of a fist bouncing off his jawline. It doesn't hurt as much as when he was fifteen and sans super-powers, but it's not a love tap either. Whoever it is has got a mean swing, and actually succeeds in waking him almost immediately. Peter squints, fighting the need to rub his eyes as he quickly discovers that he can’t physically do so. His hands are strapped down at either side of him on what he is quickly discovering, to his horror, looks like a dentist chair. 

Seriously. These bad guys have got the torture thing down-pat, coz’ who wants to sit in a dentist chair? What happened to the good old manky chair in the middle of a dark room, from which he could slowly wiggle himself to freedom? Or that one time with the office chair, which, eh, was admittedly dumb since he spent the entire interview imitating optimus prime just so that he could yell “Transformers, Roll Out!” as he made his inevitable escape.

Good times.

This was not good times. This was a disgraceful amount of metal chains and rubber. This was being watched from all angles by at least three different people, not including sadist A, who had given him the first love tap, and seemed to be gearing up for a long night.  


Wonderful.

This also happened to involve a serious amount of sterile white gowns and plastic covers. Which Peter was sure he was going to decorate, since he could not. Move. At all. It's very Dexter. Maybe they were inspired.

It is because he is thinking of serial killers and all the secrets he should absoultely not share with the class that he is not surprised when sadist A snaps his first finger. He knows how these things go, and had clenched his fist in foresight, which really hadn’t made that much difference in the end. Sadist A had simply taken longer to untangle his closed fist.

The first hadn’t been too bad. Peter was no stranger to pain. The second hurt quite a bit more.

“Gah fucking SHIT! Why would you do that?” He hissed, as the bone in his finger was wrenched to the side. It had snapped uncomfortably loudly. Peter had to take in a few lungfulls of air before being able to emit his signiture snark. 

“Don’t answer that, it was rhetorical.”

Another hiss of pain as a third finger was broken, apparently a response to his cheek. Rude.

“Look, are you guys gonna ask me some questions or something? I’m not really getting much incentive here. You know… talk and the pain will go away? Not that I wi…” Peter had to cut himself off to avoid biting his tongue as another fist to face incident occured. The way this was going, he wasn’t actually gonna be able to answer any questions.

He spat blood out to the side of the chair, which coincidently landed on observer one’s shiny black shoe. Observer one wrinkles his nose at him. Yeah. Isn’t much fun on this end either bud.

The same woman who had tazered the shit out of him before steps forward from her place beside the two observers and focuses her attention on the little screen she has before her. They are taking notes on an ipad. An ipad. Peter plays candycrush and fruit ninja on one of those things.

Childhood ruined. Or early adolescents. Same, same.

“Name?” Prim lady has a monotone voice and a blank face. Perhaps robot prim lady?

“Peter Malark.” This place does remind him of that series somewhat. Let’s hope he doesn’t actually end up like that character. That would be unpleasant.

“Peter Parker. Age?”

“Thirty.”

“Nineteen. Peter Parker, how did you attain your enhanced abilities?”

“Well, if you already know the answers to the questions, I dunno why I even have to say anything.”

Sadist punches him in the gut. Peter proceeds to cough and wheeze for breath in a dignified manner.

“How did you attain your enhanced abilities? I am disinclined to ask you again.”

“Can I just say that it's really rude that we've jumped straight to torture? I mean, I might have answered these with a bit of prompting if we had sat down in a nice cell somewhere, and you asked very politely. Currentlly, I am very disinclined to answer you, because there's not really any way you can amp this up. There's levels to this shiznic you know.”

Tazer lady’s eyes flick towards sadist A, who slowly develops a smirk that Peter really doesn’t like. He unstraps Peter’s left arm, which makes a very loud noise as a result of the chain movement. Peter struggles for a bit in his grip, but as per usual, doesn’t really get anywhere. He doesn’t have a lot of room to manoeuvre. The rest of his body is still strapped down and the broken fingers aren't helping him any either.

As he realises what sadist is going to do, he quickly averts his gaze and focuses on the ceiling. It worked that one time when he had to get a filling and the dentist was drilling into his tooth. Who's to say it won't work here?

The loud crack that his wrist makes is echoed quickly by a strangled scream that he hadn’t quite been able to hold back. His chest is heaving as he fights back the prickling in his eyes and the need to whimper. He is not weak. He can do this.

“How many individuals have similar abilities to yours?”

Gah Mother Fucker. Maybe he can just... go away for a bit. Float away and come back later when they get bored and give him back to Hawkeye. He stares upward and tries not to let them see that he's pretty close to giving them the answers they want. He's not immune to pain. 

The next scream is brittle. It hurts his throat. 

The bones in his wrist are no longer in his wrist. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling and shies away from looking at it. They dig into the back of his hand.

“Are there any others like you?”

He is leaking from his face a bit. He wants to wipe at it with the back of his hand but then he’d be kissing his wrist bones and wouldn’t that be weird. He can feel his body getting on the nope train to nope-ville as sadist A grinds the two bones together. 

Peter can hear someone babbling from some distance away about how there is only one sadist and therefore there is no need for alphabetical signifiers. Poor guy sounds like he’s in a bit of pain. Oh, that’s probably him.

His body is going into a brief state of shock to recuperate. Of course, tazer lady doesn’t know that.

She sighs as she stares down at him from his very far away bubble.

“Useless. Throw him back in the cell. We’ll try this again tomorrow.” She retakes her place beside observer one and two (who Peter had stopped noticing after a while) as the sadist unstraps him so that he can hogtie his legs together.

So much better.

To be fair, the sadist is a sadist and therefore shouldn't be expected to do anything less. 

Peter makes a small noise of protest as he goes to slap the handcuffs on, making tazer lady look up.

“Not the wrists. Upper arms.”

She sounds almost thoughtful. Is there anyone in here who is not a batshit insane sociopath?

“I’ll decide what to do with the older one tomorrow. Bit of an add on, that one.”

Apparently not.

After being dragged by the back of his shirt through several hallways whilst trying not to jostle his wrist, Peter is almost thankful when the dude throws him onto the cement floor of their cell. Clint hadn’t quite been prepared to catch him as sadist had caught him off guard, hence the ‘almost’ added in at the end there.

Peter bounces his head off the floor a bit for fun, and then decides to sprawl there for a while, all comfortable like. He rubs his cheek against the ground. His cell. Yes, yes.

Who knew that a cell could be so welcoming?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPISE! Have some torture and pain to add to the torture and pain of waiting so long between chapters!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I realise I was a bit mean in the previous chapter, which has been made obvious to me. I have switched up the tags and increased the rating to fix it… and yeah. My bad. I’ve read some pretty weird stuff on here, but yes. Warnings. Provide them.
> 
> As recompense, here is another chapter!

 

 

Peter rolled to the side and curled his body around his wrecked arm. After an indeterminate period of time, he realises that there are fingers carding through his hair. It makes him feel marginally better. 

Peeking through his longer bangs, which had so far successfully hidden his pained expression, he finds that Clint’s eyes are suitably distressed. 

Not fooling anyone then.

“So on a scale of one to ten, how much did that suck?”

Huh. The guy sounded legitimately worried. To be fair, he had cause to be.

“Oh, you know, like a four or five.” The reediness of his voice has Peter grimacing. Not particularly convincing.

“You are a terrible liar kid. Lemme see.”

“No.” He sounds like a petulant child. Really not the image he is trying to project. Heck, he thinks he did pretty well in there. What happened to his tough streak? He’s losing his ability to snark.

Oh. Probably because despite the fact that he could be dragged from the room at any moment and shot in the back of the head, he feels safe. With Hawkeye. Damn. Add another person to the list that he has the potential to get killed.

Clint is rubbing Peter’s shoulder like he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, and despite not being a five year old, Peter finds himself unclenching from his little ball and gingerly giving Clint his arm. He remembers from some psych classes that he shouldn’t be as comfortable with this as he is. He should have a defence mechanism built from trauma that would have him reluctant to make his arm, or any other part of him, vulnerable to another. At least for a while.

Aaannnd… this is not helping him take his mind off his arm, which is really quite mangled. 

Clint looks murderous as he gently twists the limb this way and that, somehow keeping it from twinging. He then flicks his eyes up to Peter’s with an unsureness that doesn’t fit him.

“You’ll have to snap them back. Soon. I’m already healing and if you leave it it’s gonna hurt a lot more later,” Peter says softly, keeping eye contact to ensure that Clint knows that he's okay with him doing it.

His body can handle a lot of wear and tear. His fingers might actually fix themselves in a few hours, but things always go quicker if everything is in its correct place. Peter’s never had a break like his wrist before though, so he’s not sure how his usually speedy healing would attempt to correct that. Best to just tuck everything back where it belongs.

Clint looks reluctant and deeply apologetic as he takes a final look at Peter’s wrist. Peter almost tells him off – it’s not like it’s his fault – but his (hopefully) final scream of the night (is it night?) supresses his words.

Peter swallows down the end of the noise – no need to make Clint feel any more guilty than he already does – and glances down to check on Hawkeye’s handiwork. Has has to scrub at his eyes a few times with his working arm before he can manage it.

He tiredly quirks of his lips in Clint’s general direction as a means to convey his gratitude. He would have botched it up a lot worse than this. The man has somehow popped both bones back into their rightful place with one push and twist, something that Pete is infinitely grateful for. Yep. Let’s leave the wrist alone for a while.

In comparison to that wrench, Peter can barely feel the little cracks that his fingers make as Clint quickly and efficiently snaps them back into place. Hawkeye doesn’t flinch, and he doesn’t dawdle, and the whole ordeal is done with in under a minute.

Peter catches the hand with his uninjured one as Clint makes to retreat, and gives it a squeeze before shutting down to heal.

He feels warmth as fingers brush against his own and the last thing he remembers is an affectionate ruffle of hair.

 

 

 

 

Clint looks down at the body below him and has to fight off the urge to put his fist through the wall. It’s not often that he gets this riled up, but it is obvious that this kid has knocked straight through his well-earned and toughened defences with little effort at all.

He feels a knot of shame and anger in his gut that he hasn’t felt since he was a kid. Since his pop. Since Barney.

He's angry at his own uselessness. He's upset that he now feels responsible for this kid and, having known him for less than a week, has already failed at protecting him. He's angry about being angry. He's worried. 

He loves and hates the kid for making him feel that. As if his heart wasn’t twisted and scarred enough already. Lose one gain another. Clint isn't really equipped to deal with this.

It’s too bad that it’s a bit late for that now. 

Time to stop moping. Now he needs to pick up the pieces and get the both of them the fuck out of this place. Not that that hadn’t been very high on his list of priorities from the beginning.

Clint hadn’t been idle while Peter was away. 

He had been admittedly knocked out for a good stretch of time, but after that he had cased the joint, using his pinpoint senses to count the steps of the guards outside, listening to the click of doors being opened and shut from two separate locations, checking the guards who did come in to feed him for weak points in their armour.

He had also determined the integrity of the lock on the door. He could pick it. Thank god he’d been somewhat of a juvenile delinquent in the period of time between his circus years and that whole assassin gig. Came in handy on the fly.

Only problem was finding something to pick it with. Their unknown captors had frisked them both very thoroughly, so Clint had had to get creative.  
If either of them had been female, this would have been a lot easier. The thought has Clint smirking. Bra wiring, bobby pins, broaches, earrings… the list goes on. As males they don’t have a lot to work with.

Clint thinks on his for a while as he lets Peter sleep on the ground, his fingers clenched around Clint’s hand. Peter will need the rest if he is to attempt this next bit, and Clint hopes that his healing is as fast acting as last time. Unfortunately, he suspects that the wrist might need at least a day or two before it's once again fully functional.

So far, Clint has taken the little plastic noses off the end of both their shoelaces to make his first instrument. It’s flimsy, but as long as he flips the lock on his first try, it should work. He still needs the second tool though, and reluctantly eyes the zipper on his favourite pair of dark pants.

This is going to be undignified.

 

 

 

 

Phil Coulson is crouching outside a seemingly unassuming petrol station out in the middle of nowhere. So far he has determined that the station is frequented fairly regularly and works much like a petrol station might be expected to, making it seem like an unassuming and convincingly transparent business. The problem with this front is that Phil knows that Clint is here. The logical assumption to make is that this is therefore not a simply petrol station. 

He knows this because he had put a very small, very undetectable tracking device on Clint’s person. Cliché but effective. He knows that Hawkeye is bound to be very displeased with him. It's nothing that he hasn't done before.

He couldn't let the agent leave that office without doing something. Phil can admit that his behaviour is slightly stalkerish and definitely outside of his professional powers, but it can't be helped. Clint refuses to follow basic principles of self-care; hence why Phil must provide for Clint's best's interests, even without express permission. The man is ridiculous. 

And really, the way this has played out means that he can’t find it in himself to regret it at all.

Clint has been missing for the better part of a week now. This would normally be acceptable, since missing was code for ‘on a mission,’ or ‘undercover.’ The problem is that Phil knows that his agent is neither of these things, given that he is the one who gets to make that call as to whether to send Hawkeye away from the Avengers for duty or not. 

Or, that would have been the case.

Apparently Hawkeye doesn’t answer to anyone but Director Fury now, after having driven away all others assigned to him. Not surprising. Clint could be a contrary agent at the best of times, and this last year certainly hadn’t shown Hawkeye at his best.

Phil frowns as he remembers the files. Hawkeye’s team-play had all but disappeared. He was moodier, less keen to share opinions, and made calls that disregarded orders. His aim was still perfect, but his behavioural pattern had changed.

Phil needed to talk to him. This was his reasoning behind that need. Reasoning that just so happened to coincide with a deeply buried reliance and desire that he had been avoiding until now.

Hence why he is squatting outside this petrol station, staring down at the screen in front of him. The traking device pressed into the skin of Hawkeye's bicep is a little red dot that reveals that he is somewhere below the station. Frankly, Phil's both surprised and worried that Clint hasn't ripped the thing out yet. He's either leaving it in on purpose (which would be a damn welcome surprise, but also means that he is in serious need of an evac) or he's too distracted to notice. Phil does not like either of these scenarios.

Evidently neither had the Avengers, becuase he hadn’t come alone. Phil was joined by a very angry, very terse Widow who seemed to be actively ignoring him, and one Steve Rogers. The Captain is standing beside him wearing his very best expression of general disapproval. 

Normally Phil would feel privileged and excited to be working beside his childhood hero.

Today he is decidedly uncomfortable. The expressionless face that he’s worked so hard to maintain over the course of his professional life is cracking; his normally bland smile a grimace.  


It’s obvious that Captain America thinks that he has done something wrong. Yes, he forgot to mention to anyone that he was not, in fact, dead. He can see how that’s a problem. But he would have thought that Captain America would have accepted and forgiven that, having had some experience in that area.

Something to ruminate over later. Later, when he has the calm he needs to smooth his expressions back out.

For now, he is relying on the Captain to relay messages to him from Agent Romanoff, since she is deigning to not speak to him at this point in time and generally acting like a five year old. A five year old who is capable of locking and transfiguring an open line so that she can conduct one-way conversations.

Phil supposes he should be thankful that she is keeping her grievances mostly under wraps. He’s not sure if even he would be able to handle a fully volatile Widow. The only individual capable of that is currently MIA. 

Phil grumbles softly as he adjust his stiff body and narrows his eyes at the gas-stop. The Widow had entered the building and incapacitated the clerk five minutes ago. He should therefore have an affirmation or denial by now.

Phil is acutely aware that Fury isn’t going to be able to stall the council forever. 

The Captain also shifts and shuffles further up the mound that is shielding them from view, tapping the small device in his ear twice to project his voice through the line.

“Are we a go? … Confirmed. We’ll meet you down there. Over and out.”

When the Captain turns to him, his face is almost as expressionless as his own. Agent Romanoff must have found the entrance. 

The two of them don't waste time entering the premises.

Phil’s first guess would have been somewhere away from the line of sight provided by the windows, but as it turns out, the entrance is behind the obligatory beer fridge in the back. It opens when the Captain pushes a button under the clerk’s counter. The whole fridge rolls backwards and then into a wall, something that Phil finds both old-fashioned and distasteful. 

It is essentially the bookcase trick. Hidden doors are becoming terribly cliche.

Phil hardens his already blank expression and raises his gun, taking his first step into the stale darkness. The Captain is close behind with a hand hovering on top of his shield, which remains strapped to his back.

Phil thinks of his agent, and wonders how many medics he’s going to need this time.

 

 

 

 

Agent Clint Barton has successfully escaped his cell.

Albeit, not in the way he’d like, as normally he would not be heading back to said recently escaped cell after having left it. He hasn’t got much of a choice, since Spiderkid is still konked out from his injuries and Clint wouldn’t have been able to clear a path whilst lugging Peter over his shoulder. No. He had needed stealth and speed, and had chosen the lesser of two evils in leaving the kid behind. He hadn’t been gone long and he now knew how to bust them out, having located the exit.

Score one for the little guys.

He was pretty damn certain that the kid needed his rest, which had definitely had an impact on his choice. 

Thinking about that exaserbated the scalding little bubbles of rage deep in his chest.

He wished he had the luxury of drawing it out and making it painful for the guards he had found, but, unfortunately, the silent approach meant no snapping bones or screams. That would attract attention that would send him back to the naughty corner, which in this case seemed to be a torture chamber. So he was forced to take out the guards with strangle holds and king hits. The one hit K.O.’s were satisfying to a degree, but Clint thinks he might come back later, when Pete is back home and tucked under as many blankets as CLint can find in the Avenger tower. 

Nowhere safer.

Clint is running just under full-sprint back towards the cell, which his mind is still torn about, opposing natures demanding him to run faster and to turn tail and get the hell out of there. Eventually his mind accepts that he must achieve the first to get to the next part, which is why he almost misses the cell door and barely avoids careening into a wall as he abruptly stops forward momentum. 

He spends a moment of time glancing around to make sure no one had noticed his moment of ineptitude (he's checking for bad guys, it's not vanity) before he gets back to business.

He fiddles deftly with the lock again, which he had sabotaged so only he could open, and works to get his heartrate down as his breaths painfully expand his lungs against his broken ribs. Nothing that he can’t handle.

As the lock finally yields, Clint pushes himself into the room to find that there is a body clinging to Peter.

Like a limpet.

A body that he is one hundred percent certain to have been cold and rotting on the bunk that both he and Peter had deposited it on.

The… zombieman attached to his kid unfolds his arms from Peter’s torso to give Clint a two-handed wave, seemingly understanding the need for relative silence. Zombieman then points to spidey and gives a thumbs up before hunkering back down and wrapping himself back around the kid.

Clint takes a menacing step forward and he swears he sees zombieman smile through the mask.

“Heya! How’s your day going?" Goes Zombieman in a overly loud whisper. "Coz, let me tell you, my day has gone pretty well so far. This teddy bear here is a definite step up from yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and I’m pretty sure I was stabbed and shot to death a couple of times the day before that, so you can probably see why waking up to this little munchkin just brightens up my morning. Why’s he all banged up though? People are mean.”

Clint blinks a few times and tries to decide whether he should laugh. He feels a definite need to laugh. Hysterically. 

This is crazy. Clint shoots things with a weapon from the Paleolithic era. Why aren’t things ever that simple?

“I’m feeling a bit peckish.” 

Zombieman is still talking. Hungry for brains?

“Always get the munchies after dying a few times. Got any Mexican takeout on ya?”

Scratch that bit about the laughter. Clint feels a definite headache coming on.

“What are you doing to my charge?” Straight question. Logic says he should get a straight response.

“Oh, is teddy bear yours? You really should take better care of him, he has a broken wrist you know. Very, very broken wrist. Poor little thing. And just look at his widdle fingers!”

“Please remove yourself from him.”

“Ohhh manners. Very well said, but nah. He’s soft. And lookit that face, all wrinkled up in pain. Naw. I’m making him all better from the boo boos. Did you know that cuddling releases oxytocin, which is a chemical that helps speed healing and recovery from physical wounds? I’m literally hugging him better.”

Clint is not going to be able to force them apart without jostling Peter. Hawkeye’s never been great with people, socializing in particular, but he knows when someone is lying and this zombie man-child is not lying. Well, his words don’t make much sense, but Clint can somehow tell (despite his headache) that the guy, for some unknown reason, wants to help Peter.

He shouldn’t be so surprised really. So far the kid has had that effect on almost everyone.

Clint glares at the man all the same. He can’t complain about an added pair of hands, but as soon as they are out of here, they're dumping this loon and he can keep his damn limbs to himself.

“Can you pick him up? Otherwise, let me take him.”

Clint almost frowns at how quickly zombieman picks himself up off the floor, somehow having kept his hold on Peter who now dangles limply from the dead-guy’s arms. When Clint takes a step forward, arms outstretched, red and black leotard takes a step back and grips Peter tighter to his chest.

"Mine!" The man hisses and nuzzles Peter's head.

Whatever. He can and will deal with that problem when they are out of danger.

He sighs and drops his shoulders before motioning to the door.

“Come on then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have changed yet again! For good reasons though this time. ;)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys  
> This chapter is dedicated to all of you who sent me such lovely comments, because you guys deserve another chapter (it's a long one because I love you)  
> It also came into being because I finally finished my damn law essay thank god.  
> Special guest appearance of my new marvel favourite, I'm sure you'll be able to pick him out ;)

 

 

Clint is beginning to seriously regret the loss of his pants. Running around an unknown facility, which no doubt sports countless unknown dangers (and pointy objects), in his underpants is probably the most undignified thing to happen to him this week. He would say this month, but at least he has underwear this time ‘round.

This particular pair is tight fitting and bright purple because Nat’s gifts are both thoughtful and humiliating. Clint can’t help but love her all the same; she finds affection difficult to navigate. Which is probably why they end up sparring more often than not. 

On the bright side of Clint's very bad, no good, terrible day, the image that he presents in his padded uniform jacket and what must seem to be purple swim trunks definitely serves as a distraction when he encounters any "guards". While they're busy picking their jaws off the ground or trying to tear their eyes off his legs (he's being kind when he says 'legs'), Clint has the time to smite them for their dishonourable regard. Okay, so Clint kinda loves Thor-speak and has been known to use it on a few occasions. Usually when something ridiculous is going on. Because, really, Clint knows that he’s certainly… toned, but there's no way that his dick is causing this much of a distraction. If Phil were here he'd be disgusted at how poorly trained the minions are. But, Clint reminds himself, Coulson's not here, and he wouldn't want his help even if he were.

As Clint dive tackles the next oggler and rolls himself past the second man, he catches a glimpse of himself in the wide square window that looks into one of the labs. The lab itself is dark so his reflection is pretty clear as he stands over the bodies he's just incapacitated. And damn. He could almost pretend that he was back in the circus. Speaking of circuses, apparently he has joined a new one, which now included a mysteriously masked zombieman and the incredibly out-of-it spiderman. 

Both of whom have been following him for the last twenty minutes as they trapeze through the underground lab. And… whom have stopped in the middle of the long corridor Clint had been leading them through. The long corridor of doom in which they could easily get cornered if the assailants chose to block both entrance and exit. The labs themselves don't lead anywhere.

“Oi! What the hell do you think you’re doing? Let's go spandex.”

The dead guy shrugs and shuffles the bundle in his arms around until Clint can see that Peter is very much awake.

“Dunno. Snuggles here wants to stop. He’s squirmin’ like a mad thing. Can you tell him to lay off? I might drop the cutie if he keeps wrigglin'. He won’t listen to me.”

“Clint?” Peter’s eyes fill with relief when they land on Hawkeye, and he lets out a breath as his body relaxes. Dead guy takes full advantage and presses Peter’s body tight against his chest so that he can rub his chin against Peter’s head, further enhancing Peter’s already bedraggled hair.

“Naaaaw! I shall call him squishy and he shall be mine.”

“Ah, Clint? What is going on?” Pete sounds understandably confused and somewhat wary as the dead guy continues petting him using mainly his face as his hands are otherwise occupied. They are also, he notes, stealthily sneaking upwards from his knee. Clint, now close enough, pinches the offending arm until it’s back where it belongs and smacks the guy over the back of the head.

Dead guy seems to pout for a bit before he’s back to rubbing his cheek against Peter’s. His masked cheek. Dead guy is apparently as attached to his secret identity as spiderman was (is?). 

Peter’s eyebrows stay creased as he looks between Clint and the man who is holding him. 

Clint stifles a smile as he seems to recover from his shock after a minute or two of this and uses his uninjured hand to shove the masked face away from his own.

“Who is this guy?" Peter huffs, disgruntled. "Whatever. I can walk. Put me down.”

“But snuggles!”

Peter squints at the man like he’s crazy (which he most likely is) before looking deliberately towards the floor whilst wearing his best imperial expression. Dead guy grumbles a bit before gently placing him on the ground in an upright position. He does, however, deign to keep his arms around Peter’s torso and a head on his shoulder.

Peter attempts to shrug him off but doesn’t really get anywhere as dead guy is both bigger and heavier than him. He's also not obviously not overly invested in causing the other masked man, or himself, more harm. Pete turns and gives Clint an expression that he is very familiar with. It’s the ‘what the fuck Clint?’ face, and he honestly doesn’t know if he wants to answer.

As much as Clint dislikes the groping, dead guy seems to like Peter, which means the kid has an extra protector in this messed up prison facility/lab – something that Clint is certainly not complaining about. If they were both at full strength, Hawkeye would probably spend more time keeping Mr. Clingy out of Peter’s personal space, but he seems harmless and whatever weird immortal thing he has going, its certain that, tactically, he makes an excellent shield. Really, the more of him is draped over Peter, the less of Peter is exposed to a bullet.

What? Clint has priorities. Which include getting them out of here. Not going so well so far.

“Look, can we just leave? I’d prefer to have this discussion when we aren’t trapped under a few feet of cement and running from people who are quite happy torturing teenagers.”  


Peter can’t quite hide his wince. 

“Wait, we’re underground?”

“Why are they picking on fluffy here? I mean, they killed me a few times, and the stinkers weren’t even creative about it! Do you know how many times I’ve been killed by bullets and knives? It’s just inconsiderate is what that is. Professionals my fine red ass. Point is, I’m extra special and don’t mind getting blown up every now and again. Fluffy can’t remake his spleen, so really, they’re just being mean. Oooh that rhymed.” 

Dead guy pauses before giving Peter another squeeze. “Not that you’re not special Fluffy, you just aint as durable as me ya know?”

Peter still looks like a bunny caught in a trap to Clint; like he can’t quite figure out why he has a latex-covered man attached to him… in every sense of the word 'attached'. He also has that look that Clint has come to associate with his need for his mask. 

“Ah… actually,” Peter begins to mumble, before he is cut off by gunfire. Which is just perfect really, because Clint predicted this, and no one ever listens to Clint, and he’s in his tighty-whiteys.

Luckily, the assailants are running at them from the direction that the three have already come from. This means they don’t have to backtrack. Bad guys are also not as organized as Clint had earlier predicted, so he, Peter and dead guy take off in the opposite direction.

The adrenaline running through Clint’s body also jogs his memory enough for him to pinpoint their current location and where they need to go. Score.

“Now, if I just had a gun, then I’d say that this is going pretty well for us.”

Peter snorts and rolls to the side to avoid a string of bullets. Clint swears he can hear dead dude giggling softly under his breath. His lungs are tweaking his ribs again as he takes in the deep breathes required for elongated sprinting.

“Hey! I want a gun! And I want my babies back. Have either of you seen my blades?” Dead guy sounds giddy and breathless. He also seems to be following Pete like a shadow with both his eyes and his movements.

Clint discovers that he’s wearing a smirk. At least he’s not bored. 

Spiderman keeps glancing between them with a worried expression.

Bullets shower across the hallway and harshly embed in the concrete around them. The little splinters of concrete and the dust that fly out of said bullet holes are extremely annoying. The guards behind them are terrible shots. Clint could shoot better with a blindfold and ten broken fingers. He inwardly cringes at that and shoots a guilty look at Peter. Too soon. 

A quick glance over his shoulder as they approach the end of the corridor tells Clint that the only one of them to have gotten hit is dead guy, and he doesn’t seem to mind. Or notice. Okaaaaay then.

Clint gives dead guy a shove to the left as the corridor ends and the next hallway appears.

“We’re making a pit stop,” he yells at Peter as he picks up his speed to get a reasonable headstart before dropping to his knees to slide across the floor and stop at the third door down. Not only does this make him look awesome, but also gives him the time to fish his homemade lockpick kit out of his jacket. It takes less than a minute to get the door unlocked.

A minute is a long time when there are guards at your six, but they seem disinclined to get too close to the three of them, no doubt having been briefed on their abilities. They fire from some distance away. Peter takes this as his queue to draw attention away from Clint because he has no sense of self preservation.

Clint doesn’t have the time to look up and see what Peter’s doing, but judging from the circling sound of gunfire and the “aww, no fair,” coming from dead dude, Clint can pretty confidently surmise that Peter is bouncing off the walls like a lunatic, launching himself from the ceiling to the side walls and back at a dizzying pace.

If Nat gets enough time with him this kid is gonna be lethal.

As he throws the door open, he grabs the nearest arm, and throws dead guy into the room. Spiderman turns to ricochet off the far wall and in after them. Both he and dead guy duck as Peter flies overhead and then Clint is closing the door to the sound of more bullets. 

That kid is the ultimate bouncy ball.

They’re in complete darkness, so Clint fumbles at the wall for a bit before he finds the light-switch. Which is also, coincidently, when the three of them turn to find that there are two extra people in the room. One of them is a woman with a sword, whilst the other levels a gun at Clint. Which is really just par for the course at this point.

The security means that they are probably in the right room.

They stand static and silent for a moment before dead dude is diving towards Peter and Clint is ducking as the first shot goes off. He bends forward and tenses the muscles in his legs before he leaps and makes contact with the guy with the gun. Clint’s always been good at using his head, and the guy was certainly not expecting that. There is a crunching noise as he slams into the guy’s face, and Clint grinds in for good measure before he’s flipping the gunman onto the floor. K.O, the guy is out, and Clint has gained a punctured lung. It’s hard to breathe. Cherry on his day.

He wants to put a hand to his side and press down, but knows that will probably make things worse, and he needs to focus on his next opponent. He turns his attention to the woman to find that she is almost face to face with dead guy, with her hands wrapped around the hilt of her sword which is now protruding from dead guy’s chest. Dead guy is laughing like he hasn’t been impaled, and definitely giving credence to Clint’s little pet name. The laughter abruptly cuts off when a whimper sounds from beneath him.

The eyes, which are the only prominent feature in dead guy’s mask, narrow as he puts his hands over the woman’s and slowly pulls the sword from his chest. Peter, who is on the bottom of this dogpile, makes a small noise as the sword recedes. 

The lady stomps down on dead guy’s pelvis in an attempt to dissuade his motions, and puts her body weight into pushing the sword forwards.

Dead guy grunts once before sing-songing “sticks and stones may break my bones, but fuck your shit I’m Deadpool.” Clint thinks he sees the guy smile as he unsheaths the sword from his body, twists his wrists and flips the blade. The woman makes a gurgling sound as the sword sinks into her heart. She dies quickly.

“Hey blondey! Look! I found my blades!”

Sure enough Clint finds that they are in a barracks of some kind, with glass viewing cabinets filled with weapons spread through the room. Which is handy really because dead guy isn’t nearly as harmless as Clint originally suspected. 

Dead guy, who apparently calls himself Deadpool, has freed the sword from the woman’s body before promptly standing and approaching the nearest cabinet, which he opens to pull out a second sword and a couple of sheaths. He then turns and crouches back down next to Peter.

“Look snuggles! This is Bea and Arthur. I’ve been working with these guys for ages. Bea is a dedicated performer, but Arthur tends to be grumpy wumpy. He just needs a bath after the nasty woman got her innards on him.” 

Peter’s expression is a mix of confusion, horror and humour which Clint supposes is a pretty good summary of the situation. His “hey!” is muffled as Deadpool drags his torn t-shirt over his head. Clint grabs a gun out of the closest cabinet and levels it at dead guy.

Peter struggles to sit up and shoots a look at Clint. Clint lowers the gun slightly.

“Ah, chill. It’s fine. Just a scratch. It was your big fat butt that was bruising me.”

Peter does indeed have some impressive bruising littering his chest and stomach, the likes of which are probably visible as a direct result of Peter's slightly accelerated healing, which dead guy pokes at for a bit before he focuses on the small incision on Peter’s chest. 

Which, Clint realises with a shock that is mirrored by his eyebrows, must have been caused by the sword piercing all the way through dead guy’s chest and into Peter’s.

“Well this is embarrassing. I was being all knightly and a gentlemanly and stuff and took one for the team but the team got hit anyways. We are Shish kebab bros for life. Two hot pieces of meat skewered on the same stick.”

Peter splutters and smacks at the hands on his chest, a blush spreading across his face. The two elder men watch intently as the wound slowly closes up and disappears. It mustn’t have been very deep if Peter’s healing is taking care of it so quickly. His bruises are also disappearing. Dead guy opens his mouth to say something. Clint takes pity on the poor kid and stalks over to the two of them so he can haul Peter over to the other side of the room.

“Pick something.”

Clint himself is eyeing a pretty awesome sniper rifle with multiple enhancements. Peter says nothing but makes no move towards a case.

“C’mon kid, you’re gonna need something,” Clint says as he clips on the attachments and the straps to the rifle before slinging it over his shoulder. He’s shoving a couple of glocks into his jacket pockets and wishing for his jeans so that he can add another pair when he hears Peter’s mumbled response.

“I’d really… rather not. Aren’t there like… I dunno, flash grenades or something in here?”

“Look kid, these guys are not good people. I know it’s hard to draw first blood, but it’s something that all of us –“ Peter cuts him off.

“I’ve killed people before.”

Well shit. Clint does not like the sound of that. Clint knows that Peter’s a vigilante, and that he has power that singles him out and makes organisations like this sit up and take notice of him, but there’s a deep sense of guilt there that Clint doesn’t wish upon anyone. He’s been there, and knows that that particular path leads nowhere but self-loathing.

Clint leans over and ruffles the kid’s hair.

“Don’t worry about it kid. I’m sure if it comes to that, me and that psycho over there have probably got it covered.”

Peter frowns a little at Clint’s words, and his eyes suggest that he’s not going to allow that. Clint’s about to call him on it when dead guy once again joins them and cuts off his train of thought. He's managed to strap both swords onto his back and has procured four more guns which decorate his hips and hang from shoulder holsters.

“Hey blondey! May I hold your baby? She’s so cute, what’s her name?”

For once dead dude isn’t looking at Peter and is instead staring intently at Clint, who decides to take a few steps back. He puts his hands up like he’s warding away an animal.

“What the hell are you talking about? There’s no baby in here.”

“No, no silly. The baby that’s strapped to your back.”

“You mean my sniper rifle? Hell no, get your own.”

“Boo.”

Dead guy bounces over to Peter to give him a hug - apparently the lack of contact last the entirity of three minutes becomes too much for him - but drops him when he spies the biggest cabinet a few feet away.

“Guys, I may just jizzed in my pants. That is a high powered grenade launcher. Could today get any better?”

Peter’s nose is wrinkled like he just smelled cat pee. Clint feels the urge to rub the bridge of his nose again.

Put it back,” Clint tells him as the man hefts it over his shoulder. He’s not particularly surprised when he’s ignored.

 

 

 

 

Phil is highly disappointed in the security measures in place for this facility. Their three man infiltration formation has not been hindered since entry. This suggests very poor training on the part of whatever authority runs this facility and almost makes him feel bad for shooting guards in their lower extremities to ensure incapacitation. It’s like grounding children.

Phil ‘almost’ feels bad, but Captain America apologises every time they enter a room and clear it, meaning that Phil doesn’t really feel the need to.

Their strategy goes like this: the Captain enters the room first, usually by force - he kicks the door open to reveal the inhabitants of the room. After Steve’s quick ‘excuse me,’ both he and Natasha step out from behind the Captain and shoot until no one is left standing. Natasha then makes sure that the men and women are unconscious. This works particularly well since Steve protects them from being shot at with the shield, and Phil is still allowed the satisfaction of taking pot shots, despite the fact that he was ordered to stay on the side lines.

They’ve been doing this for at least half an hour, following Clint’s signal through the twists and turns of the facility, clearing rooms as they need to, but Phil doesn’t feel any closer to his charge. The tracker says that Clint should be no more than two hundred metres away, but the distance doesn’t seem to shorten the further they get through the facility.

This place is an architectural disaster with its winding corridors and uninsulated lab rooms, which keep showing up next to what Phil thinks are offices. Clearly impractical. In addition to this, the underground facility is essentially a maze. Sometimes they can’t get to one room without passing through another, which means more questionably trained agents to illiminate, which in turn has Phil’s temper fizzing with frustration at the edge of his conscience.

It is not until Captain America kicks down the twenty-second door that they find anything at all relevant. Behind door number twenty-two is a man dressed in what Phil supposes is a Halloween costume. The man also happens to be standing among a heap of bodies with a pair of bloodied batons.

His face is covered and obscuring eye contact between the four of them. Steve steps forward in one of his almost signature moves as he offers a hand to shake.

“Hello. I’m Steve Rogers.”

Phil wants to point out that it is not the best time to be throwing out friendly overtures. Only with Captain America does he have this problem.

The costumed figure makes no move to return the gesture and remains crouched on the floor, his batons now facing them.

Phil raises an eyebrow.

Widow takes three steps towards the man before the far door is banging open. Clint steps through in some truly tiny purple trunks, gun readied and pointed at the first body in the room.

Clint is not wearing pants. Bare legs. Tight purple… and Phil is a professional so he only stares for a moment. Or three.

Clint is followed by another man who looks like he has also gotten the early Halloween party memo, and a young man who can’t be over the legal drinking age. He seems to be shielding one of his wrists. The young man is also keeping a careful distance between himself and the man in the full body red spandex suit, which has him standing directly in Hawkeye’s personal space.

Phil squashes the sharp hot feeling that flashes through his body. Not the time.

Clint takes one look around the room and adopts his favourite ‘put-out’ expression.

“Okay what the fuck is with all the red latex masked dudes today?”

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Peter is confused. This is rapidly becoming his permanent state of being.

The second strange man in a red suit, who is currently standing in the middle of the room, is Peter’s most recent source of confusion. Although, the hand sidling up his back definitely comes under the original and more persistent source. The man that the hand belongs to is making cooing noises at Peter whilst attempting to cajole him away from Clint. 

No way jose.

Back to the middle of the room and Peter has to admit that he likes pervy’s costume better. This guy’s got devil horns or something and Peter can’t say that he’s a massive fan of evangelism or whatever is this guy’s deal. 

Captain America is attempting to converse with the dude but is not really getting anywhere. Horned guy doesn’t answer, and is also getting kinda twitchy. He seems to pick up on every movement and sound in the room, and he keeps tilting his head towards Peter for some reason.

He’s not scared, it’s just creepy okay? Peter has a thing about strong religious types. There was an incident a few years back when he was first figuring out his abilities… let’s just say that bible bashers live up to their name, and Peter’s not exactly what God had ‘planned.’ Yeah. He has mad people skills.

He sidles a little closer to Clint and grabs his arm from behind, which has the interesting side-effect of his spidey-senses going off in a pretty loud way. There’s a man standing across the room shooting daggers at him with his eyes. He looks pretty normal to Peter, but there’s something underneath which is not quite… 

Peter lets go and takes a couple of steps back, hands in the air and placating like there’s a large animal in front of him.

Clint turns when he lets go, giving him a questioning look. Peter shakes his head once. Hawkeye shrugs and goes back to eyeing the new guy.

Handsy spandex takes the opportunity to drag Peter back into his personal space.

Yay.

Okay, actually, he kinda likes it. So sue him.

Peter resigns himself (it’s warm okay?) and lets the dude hang all over him. Since he backed away from Clint, the neat guy in the suit has joined the Captain in his attempt to calm the situation, and the two seem to have some sort of persuasive strategy going. Peter’s just glad the attention isn’t on him.

Horned guy is loosening up and straightening from his crouch. He’s looser and generally seems like he’s not gonna try and murder them all through blunt force. Good news all round.

Peter starts a little when he finds that Widow, who was supposed to be on the other side of the room, is striding straight towards him and the dude wrapped around him. Her single-minded focus makes Peter wanna force handsy guy in front of him. 

She’s completely ignoring both the situation behind her and Clint, who seems to be whispering something at her whilst making emotive hand gestures.

Peter gets the feeling that there could be a massive explosion and a large amount of gunfire behind her and she would not flinch, let alone turn around.

He will admit to cowering just a smidge.

Handsy notices when his body tenses up and begins rubbing his hands up and down Peter’s arms. It doesn’t help. 

Okay, fine, it helps a little.

“Peter.” 

Yup, not ominous at all. Widow’s voice has no inflection; it’s just as blank as her face.

The Widow stares at him for a good long while before thrusting her fist at him. Peter flinches and squeezes his eyes shut. 

When nothing happens he slowly opens one eye to find that Widow is waiting patiently with her palm open. In it are two little devices that Peter recognises as his web-shooters.

Peter immediately lights up.

“Ooooh, gimme gimme!”

Widow’s lips twitch as she drops them into his hands. 

Peter drops any focus he had on the room to stare down at them. 

He finally has a weapon he’s willing to use. 

He has to concentrate when he’s putting them on to make sure they stick. There’s no convenient buckle to click them into when he’s not wearing his suit, so he has to do this the old school way.

It’s damn inconvenient.

He had learnt early on that his powers pretty much took on every aspect of the radioactive spider that bit him, including producing the web that he uses in the web-shooters if he focuses hard enough. 'Course, it tires him out to produce a lot of it, so he uses alternatives when he can. He’d worked this whole thing out when he was trying to figure out how he could stick to the ceiling. Turns out his sweat and other body fluids (including tears, which was a very interesting and unfortunate thing to learn) harden into webbing. Luckily he can control it now, because his first few experiments did NOT turn out well. He can’t shoot it from his body, hence the web-shooters, but in a tight spot it’s still useful.

He concentrates on his wrists until he has enough webbing pooled there to effectively glue the web-shooters to his wrists. Which, coincidently, also has his injured wrist giving a final loud pop as all the muscles and nerves reconnect. 

Everyone turns to stare at him. Admittedly, it was pretty loud. 

Handsy guy leans further over his body to get a good look.

“Freakin’ finally! Wrist is now up and running. Muscle cramps have been bugging me for the last flippin’ hour,” Peter huffs, rotating his wrist to gauge mobility.

The stares are starting to make him uncomfortable when the Widow turns from her placement in front of Peter so that she is slightly faced towards Clint. Her eyes flicker to his before she’s back to the calculating look she had on Peter.

“How long?”

“Break was set six hours, forty-three minutes ago.” 

Clint’s answer is immediate and sure. Freaky. Although, counting seconds as they pass is probably necessary spy stuff. 

The look on the Widow’s face has not changed, and Peter can see himself up for a lot of medical testing in the near future. He’s not dreading it as much as he thought he would be.

“Hey fluffy, we’re not as different as I thought we were!” 

Peter presses the palm of his hand into handsy guy’s face and pushes. The dude does not budge. He also makes a whining noise that has Peter looking up at him incredulously. He can almost see the pout through the guy’s mask.

Peter huffs and goes back to ignoring him.

“Hawkeye, report.”

Captain America and the man in black seem to have finished their chat with horned dude. 

Clint doesn’t react to the voice. The guy in the suit has a pinched look on his face and makes an aborted move forward. He looks sad. 

Clint looks closed off and twitchy. Peter also notices that the Widow is flicking her gaze between the two of them and that the tension in the room has just bracketed up a few notches.

“Clint,” says Captain America, coming to stand in front of him. “What happened?”

Clint is silent for a moment longer before he’s forcibly breathing out. 

“Peter believed his cover had been compromised and needed conformation that his personal life was still separated from his identity. I tagged along. We checked. Turns out that this was no longer the case. That went about as well as you can imagine. We end up here. Accommodation does not come with a complimentary breakfast. It does come with complimentary dead people.” Clint gestures vaguely at the dude hanging off Peter. Captain America looks confused. The guy in the suit keeps his expression as blank as Widow’s. Horned guy is fiddling with what look like numchucks.

“Turns out this flavour of villain features brute force and tazers. Peter and myself were separated for a period of around three and a half hours. He was not returned in the same condition as he was received. Wrist broken in at least two places amongst other evidence of torture.” Clint has a snarl on his face. Peter averts his gaze to the ground. 

He’s not-so-secretly glad for the warmth at his back.

“As you can imagine, I took exception. Hospitality was shit so we left a few bodies behind. Don’t worry, they’re unfortunately alive.” Clint is a strange combination of defensive and defiant as he finishes that sentence. His eyes briefly flicker to the guy in the suit before he’s back to Captain America.

“The guy drooling on Peter decided to tag along. And here we are.”

There is another brief silence as everyone digests this.

The Captain nods once before addressing the Widow. “What’s your take?” 

“My guess would be CIA,” the Widow says contemplatively. “There’s no evidence of Hydra at the moment, and the CIA is effectively America’s no-prohibitions police force, the only security agency who are able to bypass basic human rights laws for the good of the nation.”

“So they’re basically our own version of Hydra then?” the Captain asks, looking like he’s gotten a mouthful of something sour. “Why are there so many intelligence agencies?”  
Clint and the Widow both shrug. The guy in the suit grimaces.

“Uh, you guys seem to know what you’re doing, being professionals and all, but d’you think we could leave now?" Asks Peter, nervous about drawing the attention of all the people in the room, who each seem like they could kill him in new and exciting ways. "This place gives me the heeby jeebies.” Sooner would be preferable to later in Peter’s opinion.

Captain America looks mildly apologetic as he answers. “Sorry Peter, this was originally a rescue mission, but if there is no one that needs immediate medical attention then we need to gather intel so we can take them out. We don’t want a repeat performance.” 

The Cap scans both Peter and Clinta second time after his initial one upon entry into the room. He also tilts his head questioningly at both of them. Peter scowls at Clint, knowing that he's hiding his injuries, but the man is studiously avoiding his gaze. Peter’s tempted to rat him out. The only reason he doesn’t is that Clint now has backup, and Peter knows how it feels to be the one holding people back. It’s sucky to be the weakest link, and Peter doesn’t admit to injuries easily either, especially when he thinks that they're not going to hinder his performance.

That’s not to say he doesn’t send Clint his best ‘don’t do anything dumb’ glare. 

Seems like Widow thinks that Clint is full of shit too, but doesn’t call him on it either. Captain America is searching Clint’s face for something, but doesn’t seem to find it.

“Alright then. We split up. Phil and I will go with Daredevil; he’s already got a bit of an idea about what we’re looking for. Hawkeye and Widow, you two find the main interface of this place and drain it of as much intelligence as you can. Send it straight to Tony; he loves poking through governmental secrets. Peter, I want you to stay here.”

“Aw man.”

“Yeah, this sucks Muscles! Why do we have to sit in the time-out corner? And not to be a tattle-tale or anything, but I’m surprised Hawkie over there isn’t coughing up blood. Right lung’s been punctured for a while now. Or collapsed? Does anyone know the difference between those two? Its like the difference between a blob being stabbed or squished right? I give him an A+ for his poker face and a D- for self preservation. And that is saying something. I barely know the meaning of that word! High school was a bad time for me.”

Everyone turns to glare at Clint. His eyes widen and he takes a single step back.

Peter inwardly kicks himself. He hadn’t realised his injuries were that bad.

“Look, everyone, I’m fine,” Clint says, before proceeding to eject a considerable amount of blood from his throat into his hand. Peter's no expert, but coughing up blood is probably not a good indication of how 'fine' Clint is. Suit guy is immediate by Hawkeye's side, a hand on his back. Clint continues hacking his guts up for the next few seconds until his hand is properly covered in red. 

Clint smacks suit guy's hand away and uses his unbloodied wrist to wipe his mouth.

“Oop, there it is,” says a voice over his shoulder. Peter elbows undead dude in the stomach. He lets out a satisfying grunt.

“I’m fine!” Clint hisses out, even though he’s clearly not.

“Hawkeye, I’m calling medical. Stay here with Peter and… that other person. I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m Deadpool!”

“Okay, stay here with Peter and Deadpool. Widow, guess you’re teaming up with me. Coulson, you good with Daredevil?”

“Would it not be more prudent to stay here and ensure patient transport?” Suit guy, apparently Coulson, is definitely gravitating towards Clint.

Clint’s eyes flash.

“I don’t need your help!”

Awkward silence. 

Coulson stares at Clint, who is in turn avoiding his gaze. The man clenches his fists before turning around and walking out of the room. Daredevil follows behind a few moments later and they both exit out of the door that Peter, Clint and Deadpool had come from. 

Captain America puts a finger to his ear as he shoots a signal out to wherever the backup of the backup is. “Medical, estimated evac? ...... Copy.”

The Captain glances at Clint worriedly before he too heads for the door which the Widow leans against. She signs something at Clint that has him frowning.

“Clint just… hang tight for fifteen minutes. Sit down. Or something.” The Cap points a finger at him. “We’ll be right back. Stay.”

Clint snorts, and Peter quickly finds himself amongst his original two companions.

“Sooooo…. Your name’s Deadpool? Or is that like a codename? An alias?”

“Oh man that TV show is the bane of my existence. It’s the basis of at least a dozen other shows, I swear. And my name is Deadpool, and Deadpool is… me. What’s your name sugar?”

“Okay, one, don’t call me that, I just inwardly cringed. And two, were you not listening before? I swear my name was thrown around like five or six times at least.”

Now Peter has two sulking men on his hands. He sighs.

“Peter. My name’s Peter.”

“Well sweet Pete, you can call me Wade.”

“What happened to Deadpool?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, What?”

“So can you regrow limbs too or what boy-o?”

“I… don’t think so?”

“But healing.”

“Are we even having a conversation here?”

“So waiting is lame. Let’s go blow up something.”

“I think the plan was to stay here with Clint and make sure he gets to a doctor. Remember the whole ‘coughing up blood’ part of the conversation? You’re the one who brought it up. Not five minutes ago I might add.”

“Thanks for that by the way,” Clint interjects dryly whilst casually flipping Deadpool off.

Deadpool blows him a kiss.

“Fuck the plan. Plans are for the weak,” Deadpool says as he begins rummaging around in what looks like a concierge desk at the far end of the room.

Clint has his head in one of his hands in an epitome of exasperation. “What is dead, crazy dude doing?”

He looks at Peter like he somehow has a better idea of what’s going through Deadpool’s head.

“I don’t know,” Peter sighs.

“HaHA!”

Peter turns to find that Deadpool has somehow materialized a ring of keys from one of the drawers in the concierge desk. Do secret bases need secretaries?

“Let’s go fuck up all their shit!”

“Uh…”

Peter has very little opportunity to say much more than this before he finds himself in Deadpool’s arms again. Do people think he’s incapable of walking or something?

“Sorry Hawkie. Able bodied superheroes only. Sit tight okay?”

Peter sees Clint take a few steps towards them, hands outstretched before Deadpool slams the door to the room in his face. An indignant “HEY” is muffled by the wood as Deadpool locks the door.

“You realise that’s not gonna hold him right?”

“Meh, it’s sturdy and I may or may not have jammed as many bits of metal into the lock as I could in the last three seconds. He can’t pick it and his ribs aren’t gonna let him bodily force it open so Hawkie is trapped in there.”

“Okay, two bits of logic missing there… One, why the hell do you have… are those bobbypins? Do you even have hair? And two, you’ve just blocked off our only exit. How are we supposed to escape now?”

“I would have snapped the key off in the lock but I don’t have the key do I?”

Peter dangles the ring of keys that Deadpool had procured not five minutes ago.

“Meh.”

Peter can see that this is gonna go real well.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,  
> Here's another chapter for being so patient with me.  
> I have exams coming up soon that will require a lot of study time, but I love this story so I shall probably still end up writing. Stupid studying.  
> Anyway; here. Have the perspective of two more of my favourite characters. ;)

Matt Murdock does not know what is happening, but he likes it.

The group he had just met had been a mixed bunch, each with their own peculiarities that he was mostly able to pick up on right away. His hearing gave away most of it, and the amalgamation of his other sense gave him approximate knowledge on what each person looked like, and where their strengths lie.

His chances of taking this base off the grid just increased tenfold. It’s been on his bucket list for a while now; getting rid of the CIA facility closest to his home-ground.

The CIA leaves a bad taste in his mouth – they believe themselves separate from law and aren’t fussy in the tactics they use to get what they want. They are essentially governmentally sanctioned criminals, and it’s about time they faced justice. As per usual, if no one else is brave enough to make them accountable for the actions, then Matt will damn well do it himself.

But apparently he’s not by himself on this one.

He had liked the man who had approached him: Captain America. His morals definitely seemed to be in line with his own, and, from what Matt can tell, he’s a genuinely nice guy. Probably packs a mean right hook too, if the arm connected to the hand that Matt eventually conceded to shake had been any indication. He had also decided early on not to get hit by the piece of metal that is usually strapped to the man’s shoulders. The sound that it makes when slicing the air as the man throws it is more than enough to clue Matt in that it’s not normal. It will probably hurt a lot should it connect with his face.

The man that he’s been partnered with now is also interesting. Even with Matt’s superior senses he’s having trouble keeping track of him. Much like the woman who had been in the room before. Unlike the woman, who Matt was able to identify pretty damn quickly, he’s having serious trouble trying to get any kind of mental image of the man. It’s like he’s purposefully being as unobtrusive and unnoticeable as possible. Interesting.

Which brings him back to the gathering room again.

Matt is still trying to muddle through the previous conversation. Lots of tension. He’s not sure who knows who and how.

He’s always had trouble trying to discern relationships… hard to tell without sight. Body language isn’t always a good indicator, so while he can tell when someone is tense from the way they step or sound, he can’t tell what might have caused that reaction.

For the moment he’ll focus on his original objective.

Best way hit a facility like this where it hurts is to go for the big brass. No bosses means no pay which means no employees. Why would you choose to be a bad guy if you’re not getting paid handsomely to do bad things? Take away motivation and you take away crime.

Of course, to do that he has to get the names of the heavy hitters in the organisation. Which means cornering and questioning some of the employees running around or digging through this CIA facility’s offline database.

Since Matt’s blind, he kind of hates computers.

Hence why he’s thankful for all the spies who have shown up and decided to side with him.

There may be cause to admit a lack of foresight in the original plan to storm the base. He went into this blind (haha) since he hadn't gotten much opportunity to do some surveillance and planning beforehand, what with the whole facility being underground.

As to why he chose this particular day for a break in, what can he say? He had a free weekend.

‘Course he’s doubly motivated now that he knows that this facility kidnaps people. One of the men who had arrived at the party late had sounded young. Really young. Matt does not condone violence against children. 

He does not blame the spies at all if they are familiar with the three who had been attempting an escape.

He’s on board.

Now that he has the dangerously unobtrusive one with him he won’t have to attack and get answers from passing random wrongdoers. He can go with the second and more effective plan of getting the information from technology. Always less messy than people. He’s gonna go out and assume that silent and deadly can actually read the computer screen where said information will be.

Yeah, he really didn’t think this one through.

Speaking of not thinking things through, his new partner in crime (what? He’s always wanted to say that) had handed him a gun the minute the two of them had left the room.

A gun.

What the hell is he supposed to do with a gun? Throw it at someone?

Maybe he should tell these people that he can’t see.

He can point it in the right direction, but he gets the feeling that his aim is going to about the same as it is in a friendly game of table tennis. In that it is non-existent.

The two of them are scouring the fifth floor down; Matt had had a very interesting time with the staircase. The steps hadn’t been standard height and the mystery man beside him had been broadcasting disapproval every time he banged his baton against the railings to get his bearings. Matt had, of course, completely ignored him and hit the metal sides a few extra times for good measure. The sound should have been satisfying as it echoed around each of the walls in the deep stairwell, but somehow Matt hadn’t been able to get a very clear picture. There's a sort of static noise to distract him from his usual depth perception.

Highly frustrating. Even now, picking through each of the empty rooms on this floor, Matt can hear the muffled static.

It’s giving him a goddamn headache.

The next room the two of them clear is just as empty as the last and filled yet again with office equipment. Matt feels like he should be purposefully stumbling over half of this stuff, but these people, unlike the rest of the general public, don’t know that he’s blind. So he doesn’t have to keep up the act.

It’s a pity that it’s happening anyway.

He has to stop that damn ringing noise. It’s distracting him and he’s missing things.

Like desks. He’s missing desks. Not missing desks. His hip hurts.

This is the third time he has ended up sprawled over a table-top, much to his dismay.

“How you holding up there Daredevil?” The mystery man asks as he offers Matt his hand.

“Like a good Catholic boy” he grunts as he allows himself to be hauled up.

He’s always been more aware of people than inanimate objects anyway. He decides that it would be best if he starts following the trajectory of the man. His effortless grace will surely help Matt avoid the things in the room. He's a slinky one.

“Oh. That does not sound good at all.” Matt huffs out a laugh and smacks the guy on the shoulder as he passes him to get to the far wall. His suit is nice. He should ask him about it later; he needs a new one for court. The last one is in a dumpster somewhere in the lower suburbs of Hells Kitchen.

He can feel eyes on his back as he presses himself against the wall. His cheek is pressed against the white paint as he focuses on what he can hear. The buzzing is coming from between the walls. No wonder it’s so constant. He’s about to turn and let his companion know that he thinks he’s found the electrical current that will lead to the main control room when a second unidentified noise catches his attention.

There’s a muffled clanging coming from the ceiling. It sounds too heavy to be a cat or raccoon.

And what would a cat be doing five floors down in an underground CIA base anyway?

Whatever it is, it’s getting closer. His face tracks the movement as it moves from the right-hand side of the room to the centre. It zigzags a few times before there’s a few clicks and a metal clang as what must be the ceiling vent slams open.

“Ah fuck.”

Oh, that voice sounds mildly familiar. One of the people from before. Not a surprise since he hasn’t seen any CIA agents since he ran into them.

“Hawkeye.”

Hmmm, high levels of tension.

Maybe he could just… sneak out the back?

BANG

Ah, right. Invisible desks. Silent enemies.

Well, this is gonna be awkward. Matt is no help at all in these kinds of things. Heck, the woman he likes literally has to stitch him back together most of the time.

Maybe he can offer that up as relationship advice?

 

 

 

 

“Hey fluffy, how do you blow up an underground secret base?”

_We’ve seriously got to learn his name._

**Should we be blowing up a base that our team is still in? And the guy in the underwear said his name was Peter. Remember that guy? He helped our boy lift our lifeless body onto the bed that one time?**

Hey guys, I have an idea. Why don’t you shut-up? I’m the big boss around here.

Fluffy is still looking at him like his decision to follow him was a terrible one. Which is a travesty. Deadpool’s ideas are always awesome! Case in point: he’s found the room with the explosives. They have a room with explosives!

Fluffy (Peter) shuffles from side to side when Deadpool points out the contents of the room. He scans the grenades and other weapons that litter the ground with an uncertain look before shuffling some more. Deadpool wants to squeeze him like that pet cat he found that tried to wiggle away from his love.

“Well, first of all, I’d make sure that there was no one in the building anymore. You know, so we don’t become mass murders. Because no.”

What was the question again? Oh right. Fiery explosions of death and destruction.

_Dat ass._

**Oooh, is that another rocket launcher?**

“What’s the point of taking out the bad-guy’s base if we aren’t also taking out the bad guys?”

“You’re going to kill them?” Fluffy turns to stare at him with huge, chocolate-brown eyes.

Deadpool has been paralysed. Puppy-dog eyes are highly effective! 

“Hey, no baby boy. I promise not to kill them. Don’t you worry. I’m just going to unalive them.”

Petey pie facepalms. Sighs loudly. Deadpool shrugs and smiles. Well, as much as he can smile through his awesome facemask. Damn thing can be like gladwrap sometimes. Meh. He doesn’t really need to breathe anyway.

_Where’d that cutesy nickname come from?_

**It seems to be a very common pet name amongst spiderpool slashfics.**

_Oooh, so we’re a thing._

**In a fictional sense, yes.**

Guys! Explosions now, petting later. Mmmm petting.

“Deadpool! Deadpool? Look, I’m not exactly comfortable with killing people. Or things. Killing in general. Try to avoid it. So, can we, I dunno, not do that?”

Peter must see something fall on Wade’s facemask, as he quickly corrects himself. “Oh, I mean, we can still blow things up, sure, that sounds like fun! But no death.”

“No death?”

“No. Death.”

“Fiiiiine. I’m gonna have to up my explosion to death ratio to equal that out then,” Wade warns. There’s not much Deadpool wouldn’t do for Fluffy anyways.

Instead of shoving all of the weapons in the room into the massive sack that he keeps folded against his left ass-cheek and thigh, he only goes for a few of the more necessary pieces and leaves the sack where it is.

_Aw, I like the body transfer Santa sack._

**Too bad, Pete’s word goes.**

“Here. You take Angelica; I’ll take Hussain. Angelica is a grenade launcher: we’ll need her for the control room. Hussain here is a rocket launcher for those hard to clean stains. He’s probably too heavy for you though.”

“I’m pretty sure I’d be able to - wait a minute. No. I’m not holding your weapons.”

“Naw. Here you go.” Deadpool shoves the grenade launcher at Peter and lets go. Peter fumbles it a few times in panic before it's stable in both of his hands.

Wade takes a satisfied step back.

“No take-backs!”

Fluffy looks like Wade just handed him a ticking bomb.

“You point it away from your face and pull that trigger.”

“Gee thanks. And don’t you already have a rocket launcher strapped onto your back along with the two sharp knifey things? Not to mention the several guns.”

“For your information they are sick samurai swords, and yes, yes I do. That is left hand rocket launcher. Hussain here is right hand rocket launcher. You see how this works?”

Peter stares down at his grenade launcher glumly.

“This was a terrible idea.”


	18. Chapter 18

Peter can't decide on the proper way to strap a grenade launcher to his body. It isn’t the kind of thing that he can stuff into the back pocket of his jeans. 

It’s at least half the size of him and his thin T-shirt wouldn’t hold that kind of weight. In fact, he had kinda torn his shirt trying.

In the end he had had to take off the now ripped piece of fabric and suction it to the skin of his shoulder and hip. It looks ridiculous and now he gets to run around without a shirt on. Whoopee.

Deadpool had been very appreciative. 

Peter doesn’t understand him. At all. Why the hell is he so fixated on Peter? Is it pity? Peter’s pretty sick of the pity party. If it is pity then the guy can keep his freakin’ hands to himself. They keep skimming his back and hips. Which happen to be pretty bare at the moment. 

It makes him feel… things. They’re quick little touches that Peter never gets a chance to brush away or slap at. Probably a good thing since he can’t decide whether he wants those hands to leave him alone or stroke him more. The gloves covering them is just thin enough that he can feel the heat of the skin underneath.

At this rate the blush that keeps working itself onto his face is gonna become permanent.

They’ve been slowly progressing downwards after their weapons pit stop. The bad guys are thinning out, but there are still enough around that Peter and Deadpool have to stop every five minutes or so to take a few out. The fights give Peter a bit of a breather from the constant touching.

So far they’ve decided the best way to get to the control room as quick as possible is to go into what Deadpool calls “stealth mode” and take them out quietly.

Deadpool is really, really bad at this. It’s like he can’t help keeping up a running commentary.

Now that Peter’s got his web-shooters back he can silence someone pretty effectively in about two seconds. A shot to the face with some webbing means that no one really gets the chance to say anything, and they can eliminate potential threats in easy ones and twos without drawing further attention. Or, that would be the case if Deadpool didn’t make ‘pew pew!’ sound effects every time Peter points his pinkie and pointer at a bad guy.

Peter just shrugs after a while. At least they don’t have to go looking for the bad guys if Deadpool keeps drawing them out. 

Peter dodges bullets by ricocheting off walls and people, shooting his webs when he gets a moment. The looks on their faces when he uses them as a step ladder to take out their partners with spinning kicks is priceless. 

Deadpool seems to favour wrestling moves which involve throwing his body at people. It looks painful. For them.

“What? If I can’t shoot bullets at them, then I will shoot Deadpool at them.”

“The third person speech is really weird.” The guy whose shoulders Peter is sitting on grunts as Pete bends back to execute one of his favourite moves. He’s in a handstand for about two seconds before his thighs, which have a head between them, slam down as Peter crashes onto his stomach. He’s effectively thrown bad-guy 180 degrees from his standing position. 

Normally someone Peter’s size should not be able to execute a move like that, but meh, spider genes. Flexible AND strong.

Can’t let Deadpool have all the fun. Peter likes to make up wrestling moves too. They just look so awesome.

Deadpool takes a time out from where he had been repeatedly punching one of the more tenacious agents in the face to give Peter a round of applause. 

Once they polish off those two they are in the clear, and there are a trail of groaning bodies behind them.

“Phew!” Deadpool sighs whilst brushing imaginary sweat off his brow. “Damn. How the hell does batman make this shit look so easy?”

“Who the heck is batman?” Asks Peter curiously, tilting his head. He absently checks that the massive gun is still stuck to his back after all the flipping and upside-down-ness. 

Yup. Still there. What a pity.

“Never mind. Keep forgetting this is Marvel.”

Peter raises an eyebrow before he’s shrugging yet again. Seems to be the best way to deal with most of the stuff that comes out of that man’s mouth.

“Come on fluff-ball,” Deadpool says while ruffling Peter’s hair. “Only one more floor and we can use our big babies.”

Peter finds himself leaning into the hand a bit before he notices he’s doing it and quickly retreats to the elevator. He tries to ignore the low chuckle from behind him.

The fifth floor is mysteriously empty. Seems he and Deadpool had taken out all the adversaries in the above four floors. It’s not until they get to the very end of the hallway and the only door with a destroyed key card scanner that they find any more people. The room is filled with machinery, flashing buttons and a number of massive screens. Kinda looks like something Peter would expect to see in the control room of a nuclear plant. It also looks confusing as all hell.

There are three figures bent over the control boards. One is typing furiously in the far corner, scanning through text faster than Peter thinks should be possible. The second, who must be the masked guy from before (coz who else has freakin’ horns) is running his fingers over the buttons but not pressing them. He also seems to be muttering something about the merit of big squares against little squires and how the circular buttons can’t be trusted. Worrisome.

The third man is unmistakeably Clint. It’s the purple underwear. Gives him away every time.

“Hey guys. What’s happening?”

None of them jump. Which is disappointing, since Peter’s pretty sure he came in silently, and it would have been pretty funny to see the lot of them jolt.

“Hey Pete. Join the party. We’re trying to figure out how this thing ticks. You any good at computer stuff?” Clint hasn’t turned around yet and seems pretty focused on one particular section of text. Peter glances at it and balks when he sees his name and a basic outline of his profile as spiderman. Clint is very deliberately pressing the keyboard keys in front of him.

Peter makes his way over to stand behind his shoulder and look on. Not a lot appears to be happening, but the longer he watches, the more letters drop out of his name.

Deadpool heads to the unmanned station and started mashing his fingers into all the buttons, giving Peter the image of someone playing an organ very enthusiastically and very badly. 

The man on the far end in the suit whom Peter hasn't really met yet - (he hasn’t met devil dude yet either, but it seems that no one really knows where the hell he came from) – turns from his station and eyes Deadpool. “Don’t press any of the red buttons. Pretty standard protocol – everyone knows you don’t press the red ones.”

“Are the red ones circular? I bet they are. The big red self-destruct button is always circular.” Seems horned guy would fit right in with the rest of the avengers on weirdness levels. 

“Can’t we just blow this place up? Would solve world problems.” Suit guy gives Deadpool the blandest look that Peter has ever seen. It’s actually pretty impressive.

“You can do whatever you want once I’ve scoured Peter’s name from every CIA system. I personally don’t give a fuck about the other stuff. It’s just governmental secrets and other such boring shnoop.”

“So do you speak computer speak or something?”

“Not exactly. For someone who never received a high school education I’m a pretty good hacker.”

“I don’t think that they teach that in high school.”

“Dunno kid. Nat taught me everything I know. Aaaaaaand, there we go.”

The section of screen where Peter’s name had previously been is now blank. The rest of Spiderman’s profile is still up, but at least his name is no longer attached to his really very dangerous secret identity. A quick read tells Peter that his name has also disappeared from the text.

“Hell yeah! Alright, let’s blow the FUCK out of this place.” Peter shoots Deadpool a look. “I mean, lets blow up some parts of this place!”

Peter thinks this is a splendid plan and hustles Clint out of the chair and out of the room. Apparently the guy with the horns has given up with the button-pushing and is now grumbling in the corner of the room. He beats them out the door. 

The guy on the far console is still furiously typing. Peter is about to go back in to haul him away from the computer interface when Deadpool picks him up by the back of his fancy suit and carries him out of the room. Suit guy has a gun out and pointed at Deadpool’s head in the blink of an eye, to which Deadpool completely ignores. He dumps him in an undignified heap next to Peter and blows Pete a kiss as he unstraps Hussain. The suit man gets to his feet and brushes the dust off his shoulders with little expression. Peter does notice that his mouth is slightly more pinched than it was before being manhandled.

“Stand back kiddies! Hussain’s got a bit of a kick to him.” Deadpool then squares his legs and fires a rocket into the room.

They are not, in Peter’s opinion, the minimum safe distance away. He, Clint, suit guy and horned dude all dive away from the blast. Deadpool is doing the supervillain laugh. Peter crosses his arms over his head as a brutal wave of heat roars over the four of them.

Somehow they’re not dead. In fact, they are barely even singed, which is a freakin’ miracle.

“Coulson report.” Captain America’s voice is coming out of a little black device that must have fallen out of suit man’s ear.

“Agent Coulson, we think there was an explosion. Status report?”

Suit guy blinks once from his sprawled position on the floor before he’s slotting the device back into his ear.

“I’m giving a confirmation on the explosion. Don’t worry, it’s under control.”

“Don’t worry?” Peter can hear the tinny incredulousness of the Cap’s voice through the speaker. A bark of laughter comes from Clint’s direction. Peter watches him fight down the urge to laugh fully and put his blank face back on. Peter frowns.

“We’re fine. What is your status?”

“Oh fine, I’ll just ignore the massive explosion for now. Widow and I have found something. Get up here.”

“Location?”

“Third floor. ETA?”

“Five minutes.”

Agent Coulson taps his ear to turn the device off and gets to his feet. Peter grumbles at the concerned expression the agent uses on them when he notices they’re not also on their feet and ready to go another round with a fiery explosion. 

The expectations are high in this one.

The devily dude is the next one to get his feet and brush the ash off his red vesty thing. Oh yes, I, the devil, eat explosions for breakfast. 

Peter groans again and stays firmly where he is. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, Clint does the same. He turns and snuggles into the cement like it’s a soft mattress whilst simultaneously managing a muffled “go way!” when Agent Coulson puts a hand on his shoulder.

Deadpool reaches down and hoists Peter over his shoulder.

“If you aint gonna walk than I shotgun carrying you.”

“Deadpoooooool!”

“I would princess carry you, but you still have Angelica stuck to your back. So, shoulder it is. Don’t worry, I promise to let you have a turn next time.”

“What, with carrying you?”

“Oh fluffy. I’d like to see you try. That might be fun. But no, I meant you can blow up the next thing.”

“Oh goodie.”

Clint seems to be having a staring contest with suit guy. Peter thinks this is a futile move on Clint’s part.

“We have three minutes Hawkeye. Get up.”

Clint glares one final time before slowly pulling himself to his feet. Peter stifles a chuckle from his position over Deadpool’s shoulder at the production he makes of it, groaning and purposefully popping different parts of his body the further upright he gets.

“Fine, keep your pants on, I’m up.” Agent Coulson raises one eyebrow and flicks his eyes down to Clint’s bare legs before they make it back up to his face.  
Clint grumbles some more but takes off in a job in the right direction. 

Two floors later and many steps and a number of annoying baton bangs made by the devil, they find Captain America and the Black Widow. They're in yet another empty hallway. Peter finds it pretty funny that they both turn and glare simultaneously at Clint who fidgets under their combined disapproval. 

Yup, it’s hilarious until that same glare is directed at Peter. It’s the worst. Almost as bad as that one time when he had accidently snapped the tap off of his bathroom sink and thought no one would notice if he just shoved a towel over the top of it. Whole area got flooded, floorboards had to be pulled out and Aunt May had chewed him out something fierce.

Peter fiddles with the front of Deadpool’s uniform and keeps his eyes averted for a bit. The Captain shakes his head slowly and glares one last time at the two of them before he moves on. They’re definitely not off the hook, but it looks like they’ve got a short reprieve.

Peter decides its best to actively avoid looking at the Widow. 

“I get the feeling that we’re going to have to re-establish the insubordination hierarchy again to make sure everyone knows when an order is expected to be followed. For now at least we can keep an eye on you two.” The Captain sounds just this side of exasperated and Peter feels a little bit bad. Deadpool must feel him deflate a bit because there’s a hand rubbing circles in his shoulders. It’s the same one that was holding him firmly in place, so now Peter has to pay more attention to not slipping off the shoulder, but it feels nice.

“The problem that Widow and I have identified is through those doors.”

The lot of them push through to find a room filled with little vials of clear fluid and what looks like blood. The horned dude immediately heads over to a line of the vials and begins sniffing them. He’s so weird.

“We think they’ve been collecting our… left overs.” The Cap winces as the horned dude sniffs a vial that has his name on it. Peter feels his nose wrinkling in a very unbecoming manner. Eugh. Gross.

“Hey guys! Check it out! There’s a whole row of little tubey things with my name on them! Just enough to fill five more mes! Can you imagine? Six Deadpools.”

“Hey Pete, looks like you’re in here too.” Hawkeye is holding up two vials that have blue stickers with his name on them. Peter tries not to flinch when he notices that the one in Clint’s left hand is labelled “before event.” The one in his right is “after event.” Three guesses as to what that means. 

The closer Peter looks at the vials the redder he gets. Whatever is in there, it’s not blood. For one, it’s not red. 

Sure, there are plenty of vials on the shelf which are obviously filled with his blood. But the two in Clint’s hands are not. In fact, they’re closer in colour to his webbing.

It’s not his webbing.

Peter couldn’t be any more mortified if he tried. He doesn’t want to even think about where they got that. Oh god. 

Since the floor isn’t swallowing him up any time soon, he snatches the vials out of Clint’s hands with his webbing and shoves them into his pockets before anyone else turns around to look. He briefly considers smashing them, but Deadpool seems to have joined devily dude in his sniffing of vials over in the corner.

The Widow is standing beside Clint after having finished examining the vials on display at the back wall. She’s smirking. Clint’s expression keeps switching between amused and sympathetic. Peter hides behind his hands.

“This is officially the worst day ever. Can we – “ Peter is cut off by a number of small metallic clangs as two small canisters make their presence known in the room.

“Grenade!” Yells Widow as she clotheslines Clint and hits the deck. Peter immediately follows suit and starts coughing in confusion as a green smog erupts from the now spinning canisters. In less than ten seconds the entire room is covered and Peter’s line of sight is completely obscured. Probably doesn’t help that his eyes are tearing up and itchy from the smokey stuff.

The only upside to this whole situation is that Peter has somehow managed to control his fall so that he lands on his left side. The little tubes of liquid in his right pocket are therefore intact and have not spilled their contents down Peter’s leg. 

So, so gross. Thank god for small favours.

“Fluffy!” Peter can hear Deadpool over on the other side of the room. There’s the smack of flesh on flesh and thudding noises coming from all around him and Peter can’t see anything. He can barely see his own hand when he puts it out in front of him. Which is probably why he doesn’t see the foot until it’s buried in his gut.

All the breath is wrenched from his lungs and he can distantly hear the sound of a few gun shots. He catches a glimpse of a gas mask as he tucks his legs and arms against his body. Peter is still struggling to see as more blows hit his side. 

Oh hell no. 

He’s had just about enough of being beaten down. It’s about time he started doing something actually useful. Prove that he can handle his damn self.

He gives it a full five seconds before he uncurls from the ball that’s been protecting him from the onslaught from above. He takes a few shots to his ribs for the effort before he’s rolled out of the way and gotten enough space to get up and take a leap of faith backwards, hoping to hell he doesn’t hit anyone. 

Luck is on his side as the space he lands in is clear and also right next to a wall, which he proceeds to climb up. The smoke is thicker when he’s on the ceiling, but at least he is no longer in danger of getting his face kicked in.

He can also see where the shots are coming from now that he’s not focused on his own problems, despite the thickness of the smoke. There are bright flashes of light coming from the direction of the doorway. Each flash is accompanied by a loud crack of sound. Hence, the bad guys are in the doorway, and, from what Peter can tell, shooting blindly into the room which seems really, really dumb.

He still has a grenade launcher strapped to his back.

There’s another volley of shots and a grunt of pain from below him that sounds suspiciously like Clint. Typical.

“Oh, mother hugger. Fine,” Peter mutters as he detaches the weapon. It’s surprisingly difficult to manoeuvre when one is upside down.

He still can’t see anything so he pretty much has no idea what he’s doing. Not that he’d have any idea how to fire this damn thing if he had full visibility and a gun instructor, but hey, what can you do. He’s pretty much got no other option.

He lines up to just above where the flashes of light are coming from, and fires.

He shoots at them. He shoots a grenade at them. Oh god, he hopes that they’re smart and see it and run like smart people would do.

There are a few little tings as the grenade bounces through the door before there’s a loud boom. The room shakes and there are no more gunshots.

Has he just killed people? Please, please, no one be dead. He doesn’t want people to be dead, he just wants the shooting to stop.

“FUCK YES PETIE PIE!” Deadpool’s voice comes zinging through his panicked thoughts as it hollers from below him. 

Peter flinches so hard that he loses his grip on the ceiling. 

He briefly feels his heart force itself into his throat as he realises he doesn’t know where the ground is. He can’t possibly hope to land this safely, and he’s dropped the grenade launcher. 

He has a few seconds to ponder whether the weapon will misfire if it makes contact with the ground before he is snatched out of mid-air.

Deadpool has one arm around Peter’s waist and the other wrapped around the nozzle of Angelica. Peter could kiss the man.

Which is apparently something that he can sense, because Deadpool puts the grenade launcher down and has a hand free to roll his mask up over his nose and he’s kissing Peter.

On the mouth.

He’s kissing Peter on the mouth.

And although Peter’s not an idiot, he can’t believe he’s not hallucinating this.

Because what?

The lips are dry and cracked but warm, and each time they move they catch a little on his own. Each tiny drag sends shivers down his spine and Peter hears himself let out a little whimper that he tries really, really hard to pretend didn't happen. 

Deadpool is surprisingly cautious, but seems encouraged by the sound and moves to nibbling softly on Peter’s upper lip. Peter whimpers a little louder and allows himself to gently swipe with his tongue at the lower lip that’s tucked between his own.

At some point his eyes had flickered closed and he feels himself leaning in towards the warmth in front of him when suddenly he’s being pushed backwards.

A quick flash of disappointment and shame washes through his body before he notices that Deadpool has his back to him and is punching a man wearing a mask directly between the eyes. Repeatedly. 

In fact, he’s holding onto the front of the man’s shirt in order to do so.

Peter puts a hand on Deadpool’s shoulder and waits until the man is facing him before he shakes his head once. Deadpool lowers his fist and takes a few hard breathes before he drops the man.

“Peter?” Clint’s voice is clear through the slowly dispersing smoke and Peter has a brief panic attack before he realises that there’s no way that anyone had been able to see them.

“Everyone, count off,” demands a voice that is unmistakeably Captain America.

“Agent Coulson, uninjured,” says a voice that Peter knows belongs to the older guy in the suit.

“Widow, uninjured. Hawkeye’s been hit, but it’s nowhere important.”

“Nowhere important? I got goddamn shot in the shoulder you harpy. It fuckin' hurts!”

“Shut up you baby. You didn’t dodge quick enough.”

“This isn’t the matrix, I can’t fucking dodge bullets.” Peter can almost hear the Widow’s eyes rolling from here.

“Uh, me and Deadpool are fine… I think?” Peter glances at the man beside. Deadpool turns around and looks at Peter from over his shoulder as he smacks his hand across his ass. 

He’s fine.

The smoke has almost fully cleared now and Peter glances around for the devily dude who hasn’t said anything yet. He finds him standing over eleven different gas-mask toting bodies with not a scratch on him.

He’s fine too. Enviably so, in fact.

Peter can hear the exact moment when Clint spots Daredevil as the grumbling on his side of the room intensifies. 

The Black Widow is leaning over Clint with both her hands on his shoulder, apparently putting pressure on his wound whilst also forcing him to lay on the ground. Peter watches as Clint tries futilely to get up while the Widow keeps him pinned. She hisses something that sounds like Russian at him and Clint freezes and goes suspiciously limp.

The guy in the suit is impersonating a statue on the other side of the room whilst only his finger remains twitching at the trigger of his gun. Captain America runs his eyes over each of them before he’s stalking out of the door. It is in shambles after Peter’s intervention.

They all remain completely still as the sound of the Cap’s shield hitting flesh echoes out of the doorway, with the exception of the Widow, who continues hissing at Clint in Russian. Maybe the silence is that they're all shell-shocked that they're still alive. Maybe its the fact that Captain America, all around good guy and people pleaser, is out there smacking bad guys around with a murderous expression. Whatever it is, Peter stays right where he is and damn well follows that unspoken order.

By the time Captain America is striding back into the room, Clint looks like a kicked puppy and Peter once again has a man draped over his shoulder. Deadpool could not follow orders to save his life. Peter both loves and hates this.

“Okay. Well, that was super fun. Awesome. Can we go now?” Peter tentively asks, patting the man behind him.

Peter will never tell anyone that he did, in fact, enjoy some of that. A very specific moment of that.

“Yes Peter. I think we can all go home.” The Captain’s voice is soft and almost ... kind, despite the fact that the man is slightly out of breath. It's the opposite of what he expected it to sound like after having clobbered a fair number of minions. He also suspects that the tiny pants are due to emotional rather than physical taxation.

Clint once again declines to take suit man’s offer of a hand up, and very vocally refuses Captain America’s offer to carry him. He walks out of the room on his own two legs, one hand pressed hard against his shoulder whilst the other cradles his ribs. Peter wishes he could share his healing abilities.

They all file out behind him and make their way towards the surface. It’s been a long few days and Peter’s ready to see the sky.

Deadpool blows up the blood vial room when all the unconscious bodies have been moved out of it.

It’s awesome. Peter thanks him by sidling up next to him on the flight back into New York in the craft that the Widow had landed and somehow hid in the middle of a parking lot.

He nods off feeling warm and safe.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The guilt of not updating is getting to me, so here's a chapter. Next one is in the works and shouldn't be far away ;)  
> Oh, and I keep forgetting to say! I definitely had Andrew Garfield in mind when I wrote Peter... He's just such a cutie patootie  
> '

 

Coulson hands Clint a pair of sunglasses when he takes a seat in the cockpit of the quinjet. Mighty considerate of him. Assets are usually expected to look after themselves when it comes to basic shit like that. This usually means that Clint roughs it.

Of course, before, when Phil was Hawkeye’s handler, Clint was perfectly happy accepting the little bits of kindness the man was prone to giving him. Because Clint is obviously a sad, lost baby bird who devours any bit of attention he can get, what with the traumatic childhood and the lonerism and the self-destructive nature and whatnot.

Clint’s very self aware.

However, now that he knows just how much he doesn’t actually matter to Phil, he has mixed feelings about accepting the man's special brand of thoughtfulness. How someone can be both kind and cruel at the same time is a new and frustrating aspect of Phil's personality.

Clint risks a quick glance through the windscreen just to make absoultely sure he has no other choice in taking the damn things, and yep, hissing and wincing ensues. Blind hawks are useless hawks. His eyes aren't adjusting quick enough. Best course of action says he takes the stupid shades. 

He snatches the glasses without looking at them or the hand attached to them and shoves them on his face with only a few mutters. Phil doesn't say anything and makes no move to attract Clint's attention, which makes his life slightly easier.

Continuing his track record of dodging any and all things emotional, Clint pours all his focus on the control panel in front of him and goes through every safety protocol he knows before taking off. He could do this with his eyes shut, despite the craft being of a different make than he is used to, but he’s not really in a chatty mood. People tend not to talk to someone when they’re busy with something. Rule number fourteen of being an unapproachable nobody in a sea of faces. An excellent skill to acquire if you're in the espionage business, but not super great for your mental health. 

Assisting the ‘talk to the hand’ aura he’s putting out is the fact that he is still pretty severely injured. Clint normally throws up huge mental barricades when he's not in top form; it's his means of compensating when his body isn't in any shape to physically protect himself. Currently, he can only take short, sharp gasps of air and his ribs are killing him. Sitting has apparently not fixed this problem. 

Also, he’s been shot. Again. 

Still not fun.

His body langauge shouts that his personal space bubble is at least twice the size that it normally is, which in itself is nothing to sneeze at. As a result, no one is encroaching on his space. Also, they have their own personal stuff to worry about; they have no energy to waste on him.

After a while of flying which requires absolutely no effort on his part, Clint finally gives into the need to check on his teammates. The awkward silence behind him is starting to seriously worry him. There are at least three people who should be expressing their very vocal opinion of the last few hours, himself included. That there is nothing but a tense undercurrent and a lot of eye-swiveling tells him that shit is about to go down. Maybe not in the immediate future, but there is gonna be a smackdown at some point, and it is probably going to involve him. 

Very definitely going to avoid him. Okay, let's not look at Nat anymore.

On any other day when he is avoiding Nat, his usual go to for reassurance is Phil. Granted, he's just as likely to chew him out as Nat is, but his lectures somehow manage to be both terrifying and comforting. Today, his body immediately rejects that idea just as strongly as his brain. He needs to deal with his own issues once again. His eyes have managed to create a no-go bubble around where he knows a certain agent is standing. 

Clint’s smart enough to realise he’s being petty. He just can’t bring himself to care. He also can't let himself go there, because he might be dumb, but he damn well learns from his mistakes. 

The more painful, the better he learns.

Agent Coulson already has far too much of him. Apparently enough to emotionally manipulate him, and he’s had more than enough of that for a lifetime. He probably doesn’t even realise it, which is possibly worse. He's becoming weak, which is unacceptable.

He’s surprised that Tash hadn’t forced him onto the medical gurney the minute they’d stepped foot in the craft, but her attention is now divided between three fronts and she’s known him for long enough that she can recognise when he’s in one of his moods. Okay, so admittedly she normally wouldn't give a fuck about Clint's moods (he's kidding himself there) but he is not her responsibility and he's caused enough trouble. He can take care of himself.

Nat’s the most accomplished multi-tasker that Clint has ever known, but with the sheer number of issues that are swirling around this craft it’s almost impossible to tell which should be addressed first. 

The dead guy Clint and Peter had picked up is now sprawled over Peter’s lap in a manner which is making all the avengers on board uncomfortable. 

Uncomfortable is a very charitable word. Steve is pulling a face which Clint has only ever seen on the rare occasions when he’s actually mad and can't hide it. It's funny because it's really a bit late to be mad about it now, this is not a new development. 'Course, Clint was willing to put up with it when the guy was being useful coz he's ruthless like that. Obviously that doesn't make it any less not okay now that the bad part is over. Well, that is, it's only not okay if Peter doesn't want the attention. If deadpool is forcing him, in any way, then Clint will go over there and snap his fingers. What's stopping him are two things: one, he's driving the ship, and two, he's not actually sure if the attention is unwanted. Peter had been pretty weirded out in the beginning, but right now he looks exasperated, but ... fond, crazily enough. This is obviously something that Steve has yet to pick up on, what with his single-minded focus pinpointed on Deadpool's hands. 

Clint lets himself smirk as he stares at Steve out of the corner of his eye as he steers. Peter might tolerate Deadpool, even like the man somewhat, but Clint is not gonna step in there. Steve almost never loses his temper. He does stupid shit all the time out of reckless willfulness, but Captain America actually losing his temper is rare. The last time that he can remember it having happened had been in a bar that Clint had gently coaxed him into, which had featured your typical drunk skeevy guys, and, alright, had not been Clint’s brightest idea. There had been a guy at the back sitting with a bunch of his friends who had his eyes set on the youngest waitress. 

The guys basically came under the douchebag category of ‘lads’ who acted tough in groups but who had never had to work for anything in their lives - private school boys with inflated egos with expectations that the world existed for them alone. They were harrassing their poor waitress every time she went over to their table. This was obvious in the way her face flushed a dark red of shame with every word or snicker coming out of their mouths. 

Steve had been seriously twitchy. Hadn’t stopped glaring long enough for Clint to hand him his drink. Clint had to physically hold him back from going over there at least four times, Nat's demand to 'stay out of trouble' echoing around his head.

Catalyst of the night had been when the guy had asked the girl for their tab which apparently was to include her ‘after hours services’ and had taken a handful of her jean-covered ass. There also might have been a comment about ‘asking for it’ before Steve had stood and teleported over there. Clint hadn’t stopped him.

Steve had lifted the guy up by the collar and sucker punched him right in the gut. Hard.

Every single person in that bar winced.

Clint had nailed both his friends with his two empty beer bottles when they made to stand up, and all was good. They walked the girl home after her shift had ended.

Point being, Clint is surprised that dead guy isn’t being physically burned by the glare Steve is pinning him with. Steve seems to be making connections between the two situations that Clint isn't entirely sure are there to be made, but the fact that Peter's squirming away from the wondering fingers is not helping change Steve's opinion on the matter. It’s also almost impressive that Deadpool hasn’t noticed the death glare yet.

Yes. That pretty neatly sums up problem number one.

Problem number two, or red horned devil who can apparently take out six goons single handledly in extremely low visibility, is sitting at the back of the quinjet with a slight smile on his face. Clint can vaguely hear him muttering something about fog. 

He also seems to have caught onto the drama if the slight turning of his head between Steve and Peter/Dead guy is any indication. Entertainment tonight has been brought to you by corrupt government agencies, the sickening cuteness of Peter's deer eyes and bedhair, and the contagious nature of Clint's fucked up life.

Problem tres unsurprisingly involves Phil. Apparently Clint is not the only one who has a problem with agent codename Pheonix. Exhibit A: Steve had been unhappy before he had even seen the weird affection thing that dead guy has got going on for Peter. Clint doesn’t think he’s heard a word exchanged between the two of them. Exhibit B: one tense Natasha. And a tense Nat is a displeased Nat.

Sticking to his self-awareness, Clint knows that he, himself, is problem number four. He’s getting out of hand again. That this is not a surprise, even to himself, leads him to believe that this issue is one that only he can solve.

After the shitstorm his life has been for the last year, Clint had decided the only way to regain any kind of personal power over his life had been to become the perfect agent. He had taken on every mission offered to him, had followed every rule, every order, without his usual back-chat or objections. Fury had landed him with every dipshit handler in his arsenal and Clint had not said a thing. He had remained at home base where SHIELD could keep an eye on him whenever he wasn’t with the avengers. He had allowed the invasion of privacy that SHIELD deemed necessary after the Loki incident. The tests, the psychologists, the little bugs he found in his room (found and had not crushed, he deserves a cookie).

Message received and understood. SHIELD didn’t trust him.

So he didn’t squish the bugs or repel the pests. He was on his best behaviour.

But despite his best efforts, the great Clint Barton had once again proven pretty damn useless. 

Not only had he gotten overpowered, kidnapped, beaten and shot, but he had failed to protect the kid despite promising himself that he would. He had relied on unknown persons to get the job done for god’s sake. It's like he hasn't been a professional killer and expert spy for the last, lets see, twenty odd years. 

The kid was coping surprisingly well with being tortured, (not to mention the whole crazy person with attachment issues thing that is now his problem) but the mere fact that it happened at all makes Clint a failure. That one’s on him.

He’s not so sure he’s really cut out for this anymore. He’s becoming more of a burden than an asset. When he was a kid, he always knew when his pop had given him that one hit too many that meant he had to drag himself to hospital. Hospital meant questions. Questions meant child services, who could only be fooled so many times. 

Eventually something had to give.

Maybe Phil was that one hit too many.

If there’s one thing Clint hates above all others, it’s being a burden. He can strike out if he needs to. Alaska’s nice this time of year. It’s one of the few contingency plans he has left, after slowly putting them away as the years he had been employed at SHIELD grew. The fact that he is already speaking in past tense strongly suggests that his mind has been made up.

He can still make it.

For now, the very least he can do is drive everyone home.

A stupid busted up lung aint gonna stop him from doing that. It’s not even reckless driving either, since Clint can easily shut himself into his sniper mindset and ignore his personal issues until he needs to deal with them, and actually driving this rust-bucket is a cakewalk.

He doesn’t want to leave the kid. Which is both surprising and not at the same time.

But he can’t ask Peter to come with him. Maybe Tash will look out for him while he’s gone. Steve certainly will.

So The Plan goes like this. Get to Avengers tower. Raid first aid supply. Possibly beg Bruce for medical assistance. Once insides have been arranged back to where they are supposed to be and bullet is not wedged against collarbone, sew dead guy’s spandex together into a straight jacket to kill two birds with one stone: guy can no longer touch Peter, and his mental state will be blaringly obvious to his next potential victims. Scratch that; find someone else who can sew and get them to do it. Priorities Clint. Next, have chat with Peter and leave him a phone number or something. Clint’s a vagabond. He can move around. Then, whilst avoiding both Tash and he who will not be named, oh, and JARVIS, sneak out the back and make a break for it.

Foolproof.

 

 

 

 

 

Peter thinks he might be having an existential crisis. Which, given the circumstances, he should really be given free entry and a drinks coupon for.

His body is still trying to catch up with the serious amount of healing that has been required of it over the last… let’s just say year, but especially the last two or three days. He’s tired and sore, he has a man snuggled like an oversized cat on his lap and Hawkeye may or may not be about to crash them all into the ocean whilst he bleeds out into the pilot’s seat, which is of concern to Peter a) because he now cares about Clint and b) he just went to a lot of effort not to die in a fiery explosion. In fact, he’s now avoided dying in a fiery explosion at least twice. 

On top of this, Captain America is glaring at him like he suspect this whole thing is Peter’s fault (which it totally is) and he has just found out that he is more than likely bisexual.

What even is he supposed to do with this.

He kissed a guy and he liked it. Also had his wrist snapped. His brain is giving him mixed signals.

He’s attracted to a man who is wearing full body spandex. A man whose face he has not seen. He has no idea who he is. He could be a mass murderer for all he knows (with Peter’s luck he’s probably a masked, mass murderer). 

Is he really so lonely that he will throw himself at the first person who shows interest in him?

Wait no. There’s Clint. Not that he showed interest in Peter in that way, but surely he’d be a safer option to crush on. 

If he liked men. Which he’s still not absolutely certain he does. 

Aaaaand now he’s thinking about experimenting. With a guy who thinks the moniker ‘Deadpool’ is cool. What does that even mean? Isn't a deadpool a list of people who are, or about to be dead? 

What is he attracted to about this guy? 

Why is this so confusing?

Oh god there are so many people who have seen his face. Who know that he is Spiderman. 

He is so, so fucked. Wait, does Deadpool know he’s Spiderman?

“Someone knock me out, I need to stop thinking.”

“That’s what alcohol is for, kid” grunts Clint from the cockpit. “Bring me some while you’re at it. Could use something to take the edge off.”

The guy on Peter’s lap, who had been muttering lowly into Peter’s thigh for the entirety of the trip, suddenly lifts his head. “You sound just like Wolverine Hawkey, and that man has got some serious alcohol-dependency issues. Got any sake? One of the few things that still give me a good buzz. Japan. They make all the good shit! Okay, I lie. Alcohol just doesn’t do it for me ya know? Healing factor can be such a bummer. Still like the taste though." (What the hell? No one drinks alcohol because they like the taste. Or maybe Peter's been misinformed? He still can't drink afterall.) "Eyyy Captain tight pants probs knows all about that. He’s prime specimen no 1 and all that. Heaps of us are copies, but you can’t beat the original. Like dinosaur clones? Some dinosaurs you just shouldn't make coz they'll eat your face off. I miss mexican food. Jurassic Park man. Why would you create a theme park full of things that can kill you? Asking for trouble if you ask me. Why does the world need T-Rexes? Just keep the bunny equivalent dinosaurs. I guess that's the difference between me and fluffy here though. So, sake?”

As is becoming the norm, everyone ignores the dude. Which is a little unfair since Peter thinks that some of that might have been important.

“He’s underage Clint.” Captain A still hasn’t relinquished his lazer glare, but his voice is remarkably calm. Gives Peter the heeby jeevies.

“But the kid could certainly use–“ Clint trails off as Captain America turns to face him. The two have some sort of eyebrow conversation before Clint is back to shrugging. “Whatever. We’re just about to land on home ground anyway. Stark’s always got a full bar.” There's a slight pause before Clint continues in a mutter "not like you didn't drink underage in the army Mr. I lied about my true age on the application form." Clint gets nothing but a glare for this.

“Mmmm sake.”

Hands that had previously been folded under a masked head begin climbing up Peter’s bare torso. Yup, he’s still not wearing a shirt. Which is still better than Clint ‘I’m still in my underpants’ Barton. 

Peter is distracted by the shivers tingling through his body and doesn’t notice the little jolt that the craft makes as it lands at the base of the avengers tower. He does, however, notice that the jolt has shifted Deadpool’s face a little too close to his crotch. 

His face feels like he has somehow procured a very unflattering sunburn.

It also becomes very difficult to swallow as the tension in the hovercraft thingy has ratcheted up a few notches over uncomfortable. The hands don’t seem to notice the tension or his flaming face, and continue stroking his sides.

The Black Widow lets out a hissing noise that has Peter glancing up incredulously. It’s the first time he’s heard the woman make an emotive noise – she normally has her poker face down hands pat. The glance up also has him making a panicked squeak and jerking backwards to dodge the massive hand that whips out of nowhere to take a grab at him.

Or, at least, it looks like it’s about to make a grab at him. What Captain America actually does is grab Deadpool by the back of the neck and haul him off Peter. He immediately misses the warmth.

“Hey! Rude. You’re gonna stretch the spandex.” Unlike Peter, who would normally accept his fate and go limp when being dangled like a naughty puppy, Deadpool smirks and makes a mad grab for the shield that’s strapped onto Captain America’s back while the man’s hands are occupied with keeping his body suspended in midair.

“Yoink.”

The Captain drops Deadpool as he jerks his arms up and behind him in an attempt to force the shield back into place. Deadpool must have some lightning quick reflexes as he manages to dodge and roll to the side, taking the shield with him.

Captain America squeezes his hands into some pretty tight looking fists and advances on Deadpool. The man (he really should learn the guy’s name) drops and curls his body underneath the shield.

“Look fluffy, I’m a turtle! Tuuurtle TUURRTTLE!” The two start playing an abridged and very brief version of whack-a-mole.

“Someone tell me that you guys aren’t fighting over my honour. Please. This has nothing do with me, right? Right?”

Peter glances around for some uninvolved support. Clint shrugs at him. The Widow has apparently decided that she has better things to do and is now rifling through a pretty sparse looking med kit. Super secret agent man seems to share the Widow’s view as he’s completely ignoring the fight in favour of staring at Clint, who is, in turn, ignoring him. 

Serious domestic happening there.

Devily dude has not moved an inch from his seat at the back, but appears to be enjoying the proceedings, paying particular attention to the body movements of the two brawlers. Thanks Satan.

Peter’s on his own. Oh goodie.

Clint has started snickering in the background as he lands the craft, pulling down a few switches that results in the mechanic sound of the gangplank opening and slowly revealing the disgruntled face of one Tony Stark. 

“Barton, what have I told you about strays? What the hell is this?” Mr Stark has both eyebrows raised as he walks up the gangway with his hands in his pockets. His frown deepens with each flick of his eyes around the aircraft, before they finally land on Captain America, who apparently warrants the most attention.

Hurray! Ironman will fix it. Oh wait, noooooooooo.

“Steve, what the heck are you doing?”

The Captain has Deadpool in a headlock with his legs wrapped around the man’s arms. It a very impressive and effective wrestling move but is also somewhat undignified. Deadpool is attempting to bite his arm, and flipping his legs around like a dying fish.

“I’m supervising.”

“You’re. Supervising. What?”

“Sexual assault of a minor,” grunts Captain America “just doesn’t sit right with me alright Tony?”

“Wait, so spandex clad man number one pulled a bad touch on Peter while you were all watching?” Tony Stark’s eyebrows are quirking up further by the second.

Eyebrowless Tony Stark is funny. Focus Peter. They're taking about you.

“Hence the slight scuffle yes.”

“What the hell? Who are these people? Why are you letting Clint bleed all over my quinjet? Why doesn’t Peter have a shirt? What is going on? Argh, I hate being left out of the loop. See! This is why I should have come along! Holding down the fort sucks.”

“Look,” Clint says as he stumbles his way towards the exit. “Can we just tie the crazy person up and go have a drink? I think that we should all just sit down and have a beer. I need alcohol in me yesterday.”

“Fine. But someone better tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Uh guys? Guys. You know, it’s funny, but I coulda sworn that any parents that I might have had were dead. Hahahaaa... Leave off the parental supervision stuff. I can look after myself, give the guy a break.”

“That’s not funny Peter,” the Cap sighs, slotting his retrieved shield back onto his back.

The widow takes over custody of Deadpool with a an eyeroll and a set of handcuffs. “Compromise,” she says, slipping a finger around the chain now connected to the two cuffs around the man's wrists and leading Deadpool off the aircraft. He follows along meekly enough, chattering on about the possible advantages of utility belts against spandex pockets. He does, however, manage to poke his tongue out at the Captain before completing his exit of the craft. Peter doesn't bother covering his giggle when the Widow catches his tongue with a gloved hand and pulls down, hard.

Well, on the bright side, at least Peter is home, in New York, not in a cell, and now not seriously hurt. All very good things.

He really should check up on Aunt May.


	20. Chapter 20

 

Peter is sitting at an almost deserted dining table being fed soup by a confirmed crazy person.

Not that he has much of a problem with this, since the domesticity of it makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside after the torture and whatnot. But, you know, he feels obliged to find a shirt. Tony Stark’s mansion/tower/very expensive living place is massive. You’d think there’d be a shirt lying around somewhere or at least a throw rug or just... anything. But nope, nothing but chrome and glass and other such useless things that come under the ‘modern’ and expensive look that Mr Stark is obviously going for.

Not that it’s not… nice, but Peter could really use the comfort of the battered couch back home with the worn blanket draped over its side. Barring that, soup and friendly company will have to do. The shirt would make things better, but Peter learnt ages ago to take what he could get and be happy with it.

After stepping off the quinjet their little group of seven had split into four, with Nat attaching some sort of mini tazer thing to Deadpool before taking the handcuffs off and leaving him to his own devices. Apparently the Avengers do not have bad-guy storage places (not that Deadpool has proven to be a Bad Guy yet, but the point still stands) and Tony had said he would work on it. For now they are making do with a tracking/dog-buzzer device for when Deadpool does a bad thing. Must have pre-settings on it or something because Deadpool apparently doesn't need to be directly monitored by any of the avengers. Captain America hadn't seemed happy about it, but had been quickly dragged off by Tony Stark towards what looked like a conference room. They had both been shadowed by the super-secret agent so Peter's gonna assume they're gonna clue Mr Stark into the going ons of the past few days. 

After freeing Deadpool and testing the mini tazer device that is now seemingly perminantly strapped onto his upper arm, (the guy had dropped to the floor pretty damn quick and proceeded to have a mini siezure whilst Death By Thighs had looked on indifferently), the Widow had grabbed a disgruntled Clint and stormed off down a hallway. Peter is going to be optimistic and believe that they're headed towards some sort of medbay. 

The devily dude had done a dissapearing ninja act which Peter was quickly starting to associate with his whole persona. One second there, the next, gone.

This left Peter standing with empty hands and a man who had just finished twitching on the ground. A few minutes pass before Jarvis politely cleared his electronic throat in a strangely considerate manner. Peter still jerked and stumbled a bit, cursing softly at his current deer-like personality.

"Mr Stark has left instructions that you should..." "Get some meat on those bones Scrappy!" Tony's voice interjects the A.I.'s. "My apologies Mr Parker, I felt it appropriate to use Mr Stark's own words. The kitchen is through this way." Green lights appear on the floor that flicker in a line down a coridoor, distinctly similar to an airplane's emergency exit lights. "Oh my god yes. Yes, we are doing that." "Come on Fluffy, the electric brain wants us to follow the breadcrumbs," Deadpool says as he stands and brushes himself off. The spandex-clad man bounded ahead of him into the directed room. Peter can hear him pulling pulling cans and pots out of cupboards, having apparently decided that the mission of 'feed Peter' was now his sacred duty to fulfil. Hence the soup and the pink frilly apron which had literally appeared out of nowhere. 

Peter doesn’t ask.

Deciding that a can-opener-weilding Deadpool is probably best left to do his thing, Peter slides into a chair and drapes his upper body over the surface of the table. It's glass, and probably more expensive then everything Peter owns. It's also cold. Goddamn it. It appears that Deadpool is a master at quick and easy foodstuffs, as Peter has barely closed his eyes before the man lands next to him and puts his hands under his shoulders to lever Peter upright in his chair. He then proceeds to hand feed him chicken soup.

He’s sensing a pattern here somewhere with getting extremely close to strange men in very small periods of time. Should probably address that at some point.

“Here comes the aeroplane Fluffy! Chugga chugga, chugga chugga, choo choo” goes Deadpool as he brings the spoon up to Peter’s mouth.

Normally, he would be mad that Deadpool is apparently one more person who sees him as a child, but Peter reasons that the man would probably do this regardless of age. So, he simply rolls his eyes, slumps further into his chair and opens his mouth, pouting only a little bit after swallowing.

“You realise that that is a train noise right?” 

Why is this happening again? Oh yeah, coz he apparently has the survival instincts of a lemming when someone shows even the slightest amount of interest in him.

“So, fluffy. What’s up with the healing thing? You can tell me, healing factor is my jam, ya know? I could take this here spoon and gouge my eye out and I would grow another one in like, five minutes. Not that I would do that coz eye scooping sucks - you’ve got this little string thing at the back that connects into your brain that you have to pull on and the eye makes a squish noise that is totally unattractive plus this spoon is cold. I’ve been shot, stabbed, hacked in half, hung – I am also hung in other ways, wanna see?” 

Peter winces a little at the truly terrible attempt at a joke and also the pretty horrific picture that the man is painting while Deadpool giggles. 

“No, no, we’re listing death right now. I could go on about this all day! I got beaten to death like forty-two times? Maybe forty-three I lose track.”  


Deadpool notices Peter’s expression and shrugs. “Eh, I have a talent for pissing people off. Merc with the mouth and whatnot. Although I’m trying to be a nice good-guy merc now. Some of those guys were just plain mean. I like to think in shades of grey, so they’d be close to pitch black, while I’m the kind of a darkish grey? Or like, if I was a Dalmatian, I’d be black with white spots? Come to think of it, do you reckon penguins have split personalities? Those cute little critters can be little shits in every sense of the word. Maybe I’m a penguin. But I like the Dalmatian analogy too… Yes, alright, we were talking about death. I get it alright? We’re getting there.” 

Deadpool manages to get another few spoons of soup into Peter while he’s talking, which is good coz Peter is in this weird shock/awe place in his head right now and probably wouldn’t be quite as dexterous with the spoon.

“There was that time with the flame-thrower, and the tank – totally excessive and not much different to being run over by a truck or having a steal beam dropped on your head – although I tend to get impaled more than crushed, you know what I'm saying?" Why all the innuendoes? Peter can't help letting out a small laugh which seems to shock Deadpool for all of ten seconds before he's surges on. "You know, drowning isn’t nearly as fun and hippy free-spirited as they make it out to be, let me tell you. Not that dying is ever really all that dignified and it usually makes me smell even worse than I normally do...” Peter doesn’t think Deadpool smells that bad. There is the metallic scent of blood that he’s become very familiar with, but apart from that he can’t smell much of anything except something faintly spicy which he is gonna assume is coming from the soup for now. Deadpool is still listing all the different ways he’s died off the top of his head. It’s not the goriness of them that has Peter’s stomach turning.

“And that other time when I choked on a tea cosy… let’s just say that I have vast, god-like experience with dying in every and any manner possible. I have literally seen my own spleen. Do you need half a liver? I could regrow half a liver. So much money to be made in the organ donation black market.”

“I think you mean kidneys.” 

“Oh munchkin. So naïve. I can donate my entire lower half. I can donate anything. Not that I thought much about donating before, but I’m turning over a new leaf, going legit, regaining my samurai honour, blah blah blah. The logistics of seppuku always confused me – couldn’t quite manage it. I mean, I did, but how the hell did they get the sword to stay stuck in the ground for long enough to fall on it?

“I think it’s a figure of speech.” Peter’s surprised that his voice is so calm. His brain is not calm. His brain is sounding so, so many alarms.

“Nah, it was a thing, but I think they just plunge their sword into their bellies or something, which I’ve tried. Tends to scramble the insides which takes a bit longer to heal. Actually, frying is preferable to scrambling. Do you feel like eggs? I wanna eat eggs now.”

Peter is having trouble processing this. Understatement of the century. So, Deadpool’s superpower is dying? Or coming back to life? Is he invincible? Oh wait no, he isn’t invincible coz he still dies, and it probably still hurts like a son of a bitch. No wonder he’s a bit loopy.

“Peteeeey, tell me!” Deadpool sounds like an overgrown gradeschooler.

“My name’s Peter, get it right.”

“Petey sounds more kawaii. So what is it about you? Are you the lovechild of Captain AmeriCAN and Tony Snark?”

“I don’t think those two are dating?” Not that Peter is the most perceptive person in the world.

“What? Eh, it’ll be in one of the universes. Those two always have some weird love-hate thing going on.”

“I didn’t even know them until like a week ago! I very much doubt that we are related.”

“Most of the time you were adopted I think? I’m pretty sure they’re your actual dads sometimes though, although a pregnant Captain America is weirdly both utterly terrifying and sexy as hell. Though, you’d definitely give him a run for his money Petey pie. Geez yellow box. Stop giving me misleading information. Well, on the bright side, that’s one less hurdle to jump later, although it’s kinda more like a ten foot brick wall then a hurdle if you know what I mean.”

“Uh no. I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know, courting the lovely maiden daughter who has the protection of two kings that have bazookas and dragons and shit.”

“Gimme more soup, my brain is hurting.”

“So, are you Spiderman yet? Is that where your healing thingy comes from? As you can see, the timeline is somewhat muddled in my head right now.”

Peter spits soup all over the lovely glass table.

“How the HELL did you know that?”

“Ding ding ding! Twenty points to Gryiffinpuff! What do you think? I think I would be in slytherin, all the cool kids where in slytherin. Hmm, lets see. About eighty-five percent of the time you end up as spiderman Petey. So I simply made an educated guess. Course its about fifty-fifty on whether we get along, and I think you die in like 30 percent of the universes? Which is a travesty if they’re all like you are. But in this one I reckon I’ve got a pretty good chance. Hey, shut up common-sense bold-writing. No one asked you.”

“Yes fine, I’m spiderman. Also, not dead (yet) so that’s a plus.”

“So you got the super-spider powers then?”

“I think so? I heal much more rapidly than your average normal person, I am faster and stronger, I can climb up walls and I think I have this inbuilt danger detector thing that gives me headaches every now and again? Also, I secrete webbing if I really try.”

“Ooh, that’s new.”

“Look, are you a time traveller or something? Or a universe skipper? What the hell, in which universe can guys get pregnant in? Captain America. Pregnant Captain America. No. I can not get past this.”

“Eh, that’s more Cable’s thing, and he’s pretty terrible at keeping deadlines for someone who basically has a tardis wristwatch. Anyway, this is awesome. We should team up and use our mad skillz to fight evil and stuff.”

“As attractive as that sounds (and as the man obviously is, even with two swords and a buttload of guns still strapped to his person as he sits at the dining table in his red skin suit), I really think I should make sure my last living relative is not dead. Then I should probably disappear for a while to avoid those government types and their scary dentist chairs.”

“Naw, you still have relatives? That’s so cute.”

“Uhh, don’t know how to answer that, actually…” The more Peter talks to this guy, the more he seems to empathise with him despite obvious craziness.

“Eh, don’t really have a lot of memories before the boxes ya know? When I wasn’t all… Nevermind, my origin story isn’t as fun or widely spread and repeated as yours Spidey - but it will be soon! There's a movie and everything.”

Peter wants to hug the guy really bad. But (a) he doesn’t know how he feels about the touching now that he has a clear(er) head and (b) the guy is giving off some serious personal bubble vibes despite him being so touchy earlier. Oh, and (c) the Avengers have apparently enforced a no-touching rule with seizure-inducing tazers.

“So what, you’re gonna jump off the planet for a bit? Leave poor old Deadpool on his lonesome? That doesn’t seem very sporting of you spidey, I thought we were becoming a kickass team. You know, I watch your back, you watch mine, we skip happily into the sunset together? We coulda included that devily dude and become Team Red and had an epic romance to which the devily dude is not invited? I'm pretty sure he's disgustingly straight anyway, what a wet blanket. Was I reading you wrong or something? Coz it seemed to me that you liked my hands on you. Which, okay, was not the kinda reaction I was expecting, but yeah, sure seemed that way. You leaned into it and everything.”

“Deadpool, we’ve known each other for less than forty-eight hours. As much as you seem like good people right now, I haven’t even seen your face! Not that looks matter... Look, I kinda went from pretty much on my own to having more than three or four people care about me. Me. Me as in Spiderman me. Thats... a lot of people. A lot. And I have learnt from past experience that spiderman me isn’t very good at keeping the people he cares about from dying.”

“What do faces gotta do with anything? My face isn’t really all that fun to look at and I aint a real glutton for punishment no matter how many times I get shot so I would prefer to keep that under wraps. Thankyou bold box. I thought that was a good pun too. One thing that I definitely can promise you is that I aint gonna die, on account of the fact that I can’t die. Usually I’m pretty bad at promises actually, but I promise that I can keep this promise Spidey. I wonder if there is a limit to amount of promises can make it into a sentence.”

“I don’t even know if I like men!” Peter blurts out before smacking a hand over his mouth and staring at the surface of the table in horror. The soup he spat out before is making a run for the edge, much like Peter’s life. He did not just say that. Avoid eye-contact, abort ABORT. Disengage brain, Peter is officially an idiot. He's also impersonating a tomato. Seems like he's gonna get plenty of practice at that as he remembers this moment many years into the future and cringes.

“Naw! Spidey, everyone knows that playing on only one side of the field is boring. Never turn down sex! That’s my motto, although I can’t say that I’ve been getting a whole heap of offers these days what with the … never you mind. Wait. Which men? No way man, you’re a single agent, a free spirit - as in not in a relationship. Please tell me you don’t have a thing with birdbrain.”

“Whoa there, I do NOT have a thing for Clint. Although, he’s still pretty important in the grand scheme of things.”

“That doesn’t not sound like you don’t have a thing for Hawkeye… But then, what’s the deal with the 'I can't handle the light that is Deadpool from outside my closet' freak out? Are you a homophobe, coz that would be so small minded spidey, so small minded. I might even get disappointed. Is it Captain America? Because lusting after Captain America is kinda a given. He’s one of those people that there is just no way that anyone in their right mind would ever turn down. I mean, have you seen that guy? Ooh, ooh, is it me? I do have a fine ass,” Deadpool jokes, although Peter can hear a waver in his voice that is definitely a tell of some kind.

Peter doesn’t say anything. Unfortunately, his body, as per usual, has already betrayed him by turning a lovely shade of pink. He can feel it creeping down his neck and into his chest as the awkward seconds tick by. 

Deadpool has, to Peter’s endless relief, stopped talking. What isn’t relieving Peter any is the fact that despite his being unable to physically see Deadpool’s eyes through the mask, he can feel them as they follow the flush down his torso. Normally he would be grateful to be seated so that the other reaction in his pants (totally Deadpool’s fault) wouldn’t be so obvious. Except the table is glass. Soooo helpful.

Pants. Jeans. Uncomfortable chafing. Deadpool’s still staring. Face oven still cooking. Basically entire body now overheated. 

Someone please spare him the indignity.

Maybe he can pretend this isn’t happening? Oh yes, because that always worked. More avoidance strategies.

“I think…” Peter gulps once and studiously avoids looking at the muscled man beside him. Bowl of soup is very interesting. Veeeerrry interesting. Look at that, there’s still some soup left in the bowl.

“I think I need some space for, like, ten minutes.”

“Yeah space, I’m totally good at space, space as in physical space and that place with all the planets and moons and stars and the aliens, coz there’s just no way that there aren’t aliens out there, but really the government needs to look into their classification of what an alien is really, its pretty politically incorrect! I mean, we’re not exactly human anymore …” Peter jerks his head up in surprise as Deadpools voice trails off. The man is slowly backing towards what looks to be an exit and is staring at Peter like he just told him that he has a bomb ticking away in his ribcage. Huh, wonder why he would choose that particular metaphor.

Peter doesn’t know whether to be surprised or offended when Deadpool hightails it out of the room like his ass is on fire. 

Mostly he just settles on confused.

 

 

 

 

 

Clint’s five step plan toward taking an unexpected, private holiday had been going pretty well until Nick Fury and his band of SHIELD robot men had shown up to re-attach Clint’s leash. This, understandably, really threw a hefty wrench into the whole scheme.

Clint almost can’t believe that he hadn’t taken this into consideration. He knows Fury and he knows SHIELD. They’re gonna wanna know about any competing agencies, especially if they can yank an agent and a super-powered kid out from under their noses. Clint himself would be worried about that CIA base if he didn’t already know that they had only been caught because he was getting rusty. There's also the fact that the crazy dead dude had basically destroyed the place. With no help at all from anyone else. Nosiree, no one else was involved in that incident at all.

So, there Clint is, sullenly getting his shoulder checked by Bruce in the tower’s medical facility while a pissy Natasha acts as nurse, when suddenly the room is full of a SHIELD tactical team and one pissed off Director of SHIELD. Clint, who had taken his blood-soaked shirt off to allow Bruce better access to his bullet wound and punctured lung (and apparently broken ribs), would be mortified to be in nothing but his tighty-whities in front of his boss, who is very armed and very scowley, but meh. Clint’s never been known to give a fuck about shit like that.

He knows he’s a goddamn fine piece of ass if nothing else and feels rightly vindicated when one of the tactical dudes discretely checks him out despite the blood and serious amount of bruising. Coulson obviously isn’t quite up to training the newbies in the art of the poker face coz the guy definitely flushes when Clint smirks at him.

“What’s up?” Clint asks, voice light and nonchalant.

“What’s up? What's up is my blood pressure Agent Barton. Not only do you get yourself kidnapped and grievously injured, but three of my best people disobeyed orders to go and retrieve you, the CIA has now joined the council in riding my ass, and the number of strays you have apparently taken under your wing has increased to a grand total of three spandex-clad super-powered puppies that we do not know what to do with.”

“In my defence, sir, I only really planned on adopting the one.”

“Well that’s very comforting agent, but as you can see, your contribution is not really reinforcing my belief that people generally act with common goddamn sense.”

“I don’t really see how any of this is Clint’s fault…” Bruce points out as he knots the final stitch in Clint’s shoulder and snips the suture string to a more comfortable size. Clint decides that his previous decision to label Bruce Banner as good people was an excellent one. Good job past Clint.

Nat passes Bruce a few rolls of bandages as Fury continues ranting. Clint kinda tunes him out and wonders where Phil is. Frankly, he’s surprised that Phil went against the mothership to come get him – if there’s anything that he has learnt from his past experiences, it is that Phil is very much married to his job.

“Hey doc, watcha gonna do about the punctured lung?”

“There’s a punctured lung? Clint.” Bruce sighs, sounding both chiding and exasperated. “How did you puncture your lung?”

“Eh, ribs were being more than normally contrary?”

“Is the rib still breaching the lung? Left or right? Never mind, we’re doing x-rays. If your very lucky, you won’t need surgery and I’ll give you the good pain killers until your body heals itself. Not much I can do about ribs and lungs. Can set the bones if they’re broken though.”

“Do I get a lollipop if I’m good?”

"Why do I always feel like you people wouldn't know respect if it hit you in the face?" Fury asks from somewhere in the background. 

“I’m sure we can find you something,” Bruce soothes, whilst completely ignoring the armed agents filling up his medbay. 

Clint feels a sharp stinging in his neck and turns to half-heartedly glare at a needle-brandishing Widow.

“What? You never sit still through these things.”

Clint can’t find the energy to be mad. He does, however, manage to flip Fury off as he is wheeled into the next room on the medical gurney. Bruce is a very careless driver of said medical gurney. A few goons are jolted out of the way by the mild mannered doctor. 

"Don't think this is over Barton." Clint falls unconscious with a smile on his face.


	21. Chapter 21

Peter sits at the dining table and stares at the now cold bowl of soup and ponders life. He’s spent the last twenty minutes losing an argument with the remaining pieces of corn floating around in his broth. 

Enough. God knows he’s the king of moping, but enough. He has things that need doing. Like, for example, calling his Aunt. You know, the one who could potentially be kidnapped or injured and scared and he is a terrible, terrible son/nephew. Berating himself about how he had managed to scare off Deadpool during the course of their admittedly brief conversation is not a practical use of his time. Even though he has no idea, none, nada, of what he had done to trigger the man's exit with what basically amounted to a sonic boom as he broke the sound/time barrier.

Good to know that he can still clear a room faster than a skunk with rabies. Or, for example, a huge spider. Oh the irony. Wait, can skunks get rabies? Thought to consider at a later time.

As he rifles through his skinny jean pockets he realises that unfortunately being kidnapped and body searched by evil government agencies has left him without his phone. Not that said phone had a mass amount of contacts in it; the totality being Aunt May and the pizza joint across the block that serves a mean pepperoni and ham. Still, low blow evil government agency. Low blow.

On to plan B; acquiring a phone. Which, regrettably, involves using someone else’s. He might have to talk to people. Which, at this current moment, unfortunately involves flashing his nipples at everyone, because he still hasn’t addressed problem C on his list. Wait, no, it’s probably been knocked back to become problem G on the magical, exponentially expanding list.

But people. How does Tony Stark find anyone in this place? It’s like he owns his own skyscraper. Oh wait, he does. Peter’s mind can’t even comprehend having that much money. 

“Jarvis, where is everyone?”

“Mr Parker, I feel that I should warn you that Mr Stark was unable to intercept the SHIELD agents that are investigating the agency that held Agent Barton and yourself prisoner. My estimates show that there is a ninety-three percent probability that you are their next target in acquiring information through interrogation now that Agent Barton has been rendered unconscious.”

“Wait, why is Clint unconscious?”

“Agent Barton is undergoing medical examination. Mr Parker, you have two minutes and thirty-three seconds before Director Nick Fury and three SHIELD agents arrive at your location.”

“WHAT? What do I do?”

“I have already alerted Captain Rogers and Mr Stark; they will be with you presently.”

Peter pushes sharply away from the table and sprints straight for the nearest window.

No thanks. Nup. He’s out. Escape suddenly hits number one priority as the only viable option - he’d rather not deal with anymore governmental types today. He’ll go find Aunt May Spidey-style. He would rather swing through the city without a mask than deal with this, and that is saying something. Okay, so he still has a secret identity to worry about, but that's besides the point. He could find… a stocking or something? It's not like his bare chest is particularly identifiable. Not like he's shown it to anyone living.

The problem with this plan is that Mr Stark has apparently not been idle while Peter was away. The security on the windows is impressive. Unnecessary and excessive, but impressive. Peter fiddles in vain as the seconds tick by. His scrabbling only intensifies with his panic. 

The door smacks open just as he gives up on the damn things. A man in tactical gear and a soul-sucking-black trench coat steps through. He is followed by three more men who are somewhat less intimidating despite the raised guns. The man, who definitely has a ‘big boss’ aura, has an eyepatch covering one eye and an exasperated expression as he motions to his lackeys.

“Put your goddamn guns down, that is a minor. Guns away, kiddy gloves on.”

One of the guys actually looks down at his gloves in confusion. Peter’s throat is too dry to laugh. He coughs a few times to clear it – it’s not his style to stay silent too long.

“Am I dealing with pirate spies right now? Is that what this is?”

“Do I look like a damn pirate to you, son?”

“I… don’t really wanna answer that?” Normally Peter would be sweating buckets at this point since this is every one of his nightmares come true and he is so, so close to being discovered, tagged and bagged, but his week has not been a normal one. His fear response is understandably mixed up.

“Peter Parker, nineteen, turned super-powered in much the same way as a werewolf, from what I can determine, except the fact that we are now dealing with man-made mutant spiders instead of mutant wolves. Because why the fuck not.”

Okay, scratch that. Peter should be afraid. He should be very afraid.

“As of forty-eight hours ago you came into contact with one Wade Wilson, codename Deadpool, who decided to join you in escaping an underground CIA facility despite his known and very, very reinforced status of being an unpredictable lone wolf that kills without provocation or any real level of consideration. I find myself suddenly very interested in you Mr Parker. Have you come into contact with Deadpool before?”

“Uh no, and I really don’t like where I think this is going. Also, that’s your quota of wolf-related metaphors filled.” Peter’s Spidey senses are tingling in a way that does not denote physical danger, but warning of the infinitely more scary and unknown potential threat to his emotional wellbeing.

Big boss man stares at him for a few seconds, a calculating look on his face. There’s no appreciation of smart-ass remarks these days.

“Mr Parker, I hate to play the guilty by association card, but you are a difficult kid to track, and your record isn’t exactly squeaky clean. Yes, you haven’t purposefully killed anyone yet, but the longer you decide to play around with Deadpool, the less likely that that is going to remain the case.” 

Okay, ouch. Peter’s only been trying to do the right thing his entire life. No biggie. 

“As I see it, you have two options. You can come with us and receive formal training from people who know your powers and know what they’re doing in ironing out the less than savoury aspects of our potential recruits. This will happen so that you will become a productive member of society, rather than the menace to local authorities that you are now. Law enforcement doesn’t take too well to vigilantes, and I feel myself agreeing with them when Deadpool is involved. The second option involves you disagreeing to option A, which will then result in us taking you away anyway and locking you up in SHIELD day-care until we decide what to do with you.”

Peter splutters and stares incredulously at the trench coat pirate. Ah-huh. 

“Nah.” 

Trench coat pirate glowers as Peter shrugs. “I think I’ll go with option three. You know, the option that doesn’t involve you manipulating me into doing something that I haven’t agreed to do. Been there, done that with the whole kidnapping thing. What happened to the kiddy gloves by the way? Coz I gotta say, I’m not feeling very coddled right now.”

“Life is harsh, kid. Get over it.” 

Oh, trench coat pirate isn’t pleased. His face is quite emotive for a super secret pirate spy boss. Oddly enough. Peter is generally pretty dorky/clumsy, but he isn’t about to respect someone who doesn’t respect him.

“We don’t know you. You are an unknown element, unpredictable, young and impressionable. We understand that you are doing what you think is right in this moment, but who’s to say that you will make the right choices later on? You have had the luck of a damn leprechaun not to have gotten your hands dirty yet. Frankly, it’s a goddamn miracle. But death is part of the job description of a vigilante. And not in the “we’ll all die at the ripe old age of ninety-three.” More, “I’m a nineteen year old with a hero complex and got shot in the face” kind of way. We can help you, train you, so that you don’t die alone in an alley some day. Your chances of survival go up if you side with us. Yes, we will take some of your basic freedoms if you choose to come quietly. If you don’t, well, SHIELD is known for its creativity and innervation in the prison business. We are capable of containing people who are a lot more dangerous than spiderman.”

“Okay, but why am I suddenly a problem now? You and your men in black were happy enough to leave me to my own devices when I was getting my innards scooped out by giant lizards and dub-step electric eel men, but I get kidnaped one time by a rival agency and its suddenly Spidey Season? What gives?”

Trench coat pirate wrinkles his nose like answering straight is distasteful. Hey, it probably is for a spy.

“Alright kid. Let me lay this down for you in simple terms.” Peter thinks he could lay it down in complicated terms if he really wanted – Peter graduated second in his cohort after all.

“We do not like deadpool. He is a problem. An unsolvable, invincible, downright contrary problem that has given me more than my fair share of migraines. We don’t know how to deal with him, or how to contain him. He tends to blow things up if we tie him down for too long. We have been trying to do so, without success, for as long as we’ve known of his existence. And I’m talking years here. Now, out of nowhere, he decides that he can work with the Avengers to attain goals with little to no casualties. For the first time, ever, he is displaying an ability to follow orders. I ask myself, what has changed? All the variables are the same, with one exception. I don’t know and I don’t care how you got him to listen to you. That’s not my concern. What IS my concern is that now we can turn you into Wade Wilson’s motherboard. You can control him.”

Peter opens his mouth to dispute the obviously flawed logic in this, but the man simply raises an arm with a calm expression. Really? Talk to the hand? 

“So our best option right now is to work with what we’ve got. Which means training a nineteen year old to be an agent in order to gain some modicum of control over the situation.”

Okay, so it looks like they don’t want to know that, actually, Peter has exactly zero control over Deadpool? That the man had, not half an hour before, run from Peter, screaming like a banshee? Coz, you know, he’s not a spy, but that seems like it might be relevant information. You know. Maybe.

And while Peter is a massive fan of ignoring something until it disappears, he knows that real life doesn’t work like that. So listening to him, or at least letting him voice his concerns, really would be in these people’s best interests. But oh no. Ignore the nineteen year old. What could he possibly know?

Peter has just opened his mouth to point out why this is a terrible, terrible idea, when he is once again cut off. This time by the showy entrance of one Tony Stark and a begrudgingly firm Captain America.

Turns out he doesn’t even need parents to feel like he’s being treated like a child all the time.

“Hey I’m just wondering but are you fucking kidding me?” Asks Tony Stark, getting right up in eye-patch’s space. “Recruiting a little young aren’t we Nick?” His face is sour as he uses a finger to poke the man in the chest.

“Like all things that come under SHIELD’s jurisdiction, Stark, this is none of your damn business.”

“Can’t say that we agree with you there Director. Peter’s not a soldier. He’s barely above a civilian. You have no claim over him.”

Gee whizz, thanks a ton Captain. That doesn’t make him sound pathetic at all.

“Rogers, Stark, this is happening whether you like it or not.”

“Hows about if I don’t –“

“Don’t even start with me Parker. We will truss you up like a thanksgiving turkey and haul you back to headquarters by your bare toes if we have to. Make a decision.”

“Okaaaay, not that I haven't been traumatised enough already in the past forty-eight hours, but if you had been listening to me at all, you would have noticed that I’ve already stated my answer is no, but thanks for your generous offer. Imma gonna have to take a rain check on that. In the sense that I hope to never ever see you again. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m not ready for a serious relationship yet.”

And now he’s thinking about Deadpool again. How does his mind keep skipping back to that topic? Confounding.

“Uh guys? The menacing advance is not really helping with the sales pitch. I mean, I know I refused, but the whole idea of a sales pitch is to keep trying. Woo me into trialling your goods.” Not that it’s gonna work, coz he’s made up his mind, but it seems all three of the big bosses in the room have as well, and that decision seems to be one that kinda takes Peter’s decision out of the picture. In that he’s not gonna get a choice. He likes Mr Stark and Mr Rogers well enough, and at least Mr Stark’s hands are placating as they advance towards him. But nope. He’s had a hell of a week, and its time he got to make decisions about his wellbeing. He gets to have choices. That’s something he’s allowed to have.

So yes, he stalls. And uses the opportunity that presents itself when Captain America steps into the path of trench coat pirate to block him off to bunch the muscles in his legs and spring over the top of everyone towards the now very clear doorway. Graceful-like a frog. Or like he's somehow figured out how to jump horizontally off of a diving board. He gives himself nine out of ten, since he has to roll through the landing rather than sticking it. The roll itself is not very graceful since he, fortunately, had decided to shoot both of the men in black in the legs with his webbing as he soared over them, and the string-like webbing had made it difficult to roll. He makes it look awesome by crouching down and pinching off the end to securely press into the floor with his thumbs. The two henchmen are now effectively leashed to the ground and unable to chase after him.

Huh, maybe he’s learned something after all.

"PETER!" Yells Captain America, making to move after him. "Wait!"

“Peace out!” He yells in the way of parting words as he sprints out the door.

Trench coat pirate is probably gonna have his hands too full with Captain America and Ironman for now.

Next stop: Aunt May.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAhahahahah hey everybody!  
> Sooo, uni is very time consuming, but I still love this thing, so here's another chapter. It's shorter than I wanted, but I figure its better than nothing!  
> I missed sass Peter (not that he ever went very far)


	22. Chapter 22

Ugh. Clint hates waking up after being drugged. He’s drowsy and slow to react, and moving is kind of nauseating. Not that he isn’t used to waking up with a head full of lead and a nasty taste in his mouth. Of course, usually it’s courtesy of Nat’s unique brand of love, but today’s specialty package also includes the recognisable hot, pinching pain of a bullet wound that’s centred around his shoulder, and it’s kinda hard to breathe. Needles stab at his sides and there’s an ominous creaking sound as his lungs expand. 

He’s feeling pretty disinclined to move. 

Ribs. Broken ribs officially suck ass. He hasn’t had his ribs broken in more than twenty years. Figures that he was about due.

The annoying beeping to his left has Clint gingerly levering himself up from the hospital bed. He gets about halfway before he has to stop, leaning on his elbows. He’s gonna take a quick break. Just a short breather.

He’s alone. 

This breaks a pattern, and is therefore cause for concern. 

Tash is always there when he wakes up, if only to knock some sense into him. Not that that has ever worked; Clint always lands himself right back in the same damn bed, but he thinks it makes her feel better.

Back when Phil was still a part of his life, he used to sit down in the awful plastic hospital chair beside Clint’s bed and go through every wrong move, every questionable decision that had ultimately resulted in Clint’s personal injury. 

Clint will deny enjoying the slight frown on the man’s face while he listed his mistakes and injuries. He also hadn’t found the concern in his eyes to be a source of warmth.

‘Course, Clint knows that that aint happening anymore. Which is really partially his fault for pushing the man away, but he isn’t looking for any handouts. He knows that Coulson doesn’t actually give a damn, and that really defeats the purpose of the whole exercise.

So really, he’s relying on the Natasha factor to determine that something’s up.

That she is not present means that he is once again on the clock. He doesn’t have time to be lounging around in bed. 

Good thing there’s no one around to keep him in it. 

Clint feels his mouth curving into the smirk that usually has baby agents shifting nervously and eyeing the nearest exit.

Getting out of the hospital bed is hard. His ribs are throbbing despite the pain killers that are being pumped into his system, and it takes him three tries until he can roll out of the bed. Getting to his feet is another mission that he should be well used to by now, but still causes him a considerable amount of pain. 

Why the hell can’t he have super healing powers or some shit?

“Awww, IV drip. What’re you doing?” Clint mumbles as his body jerks back against the needle attached to his arm. The machine that is hooked up moves with him and clutters to the ground. 

It’s not particularly comfortable. He just loves having sharp bits of metal stuck in his body. It’s fucking great.

“Clint!” 

Spiderman bursts through the door of the tiny medical room in a manner that he must have learnt from Stark. The door slams against the stopper and bounces back to smack Spidey in the face. 

This happens because he is standing stupefied in the doorway.

Clint looks down at himself and realises that he has graduated from not wearing pants to not wearing anything. Not one shred of fabric. He is very, very naked. 

Meh.

“What? I was in surgery.” Clint shrugs and makes no move to cover himself as he slowly tugs the needle out. The overall picture that he’s painting for Peter probably isn’t helped by the overturned IV stand or the erratic beeping of the heart monitor which is also no longer attached to Clint’s person. 

“Uhhhh,” goes Peter, who is bright red and making a valiant attempt to keep eye-contact.

“Gimme those pants over there.” Clint gestures vaguely at the neatly folded pile of clothes sitting on the chair beside the door. He doesn’t see the kid move, but there are pants hitting him in the face, so that must have happened.

“Sooo, what up? You never seen dick before or something?”

Peter ignores him to press a finger to his lips. He then closes the door quietly behind himself.

“Bit late for that – not only did you bang into the room like I was about to eat your last cookie, but I’m pretty sure this here machine is telling whoever is on the other end of it that I’m dead. Which, you know, usually brings people running. If only to poke at me with sticks.”

Peter deflates a bit and turns the lock on the door. He then turns just as Clint is zipping up the jeans he’s been thrown. The kid narrows his eyes like an idea just hit him, and crouches down to slither under the bed.

“What’re you doing there kid?”

“Hiding.”

“What’re you, a grade-schooler? That’s the first place they’re gonna look. God, you have so much to learn. Wait, who’s looking for you?”

“Men in black.”

“You mean SHIELD?”

“No, I mean Thomas the tank engine and friends. Yes, I flippin’ mean SHIELD.”

“No need to be snippy. Unless bossman was involved. If he is involved this early on, we might have a problem.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, dunno how much help I’m gonna be there kid. I’m pretty much at the top of his naughty list.”

“Yippee, you can fight me for first place.” 

“Well, this has been fun, but I’m gonna go now.” Clint grunts as he pulls on the t-shirt that's available. It's tight. Dammit.

“What? Nooooo! Help me!” Peter whines from beneath the hospital bed.

Clint sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. It’s getting long. He’s gonna have to sit through the torture of not Phil hair cutting. It involves the touch of strangers. It’s not fun.

“What the hell d’you want me to do kid?”

“How do I get out of the tower without Jarvis noticing?”

“I am afraid, Mr Parker, that I notice everything,” the AI’s slightly smug voice sounds from a tiny speaker in the corner of the room.

“Meep!” Goes Peter, who promptly ducks his head back under the bed. 

Clint cracks up. “Yeah, Jarvis can be an asshole. Don’t let his accent and politeness fool you. He will scare the shit out of you at 3am in the morning for shits and gigs.”

Peter grumbles and gets out from beneath the bed.

“So, before we make our daring escape, wanna update me on the situation?”

Peter does. Clint decides that he doesn’t like plan A. Plan B kinda sucks ass too. Whatever Spiderman initiative that Fury has cooking up sounds fucking stupid. In the sense that Clint knows that Fury knows that it won’t work out, because even though he is the director of SHIELD, there are too many thumbs in that metaphorical pie. So, he is either sending the kid a pretty dire warning, or he wants Clint to do something about it. There’s no way Peter would have made such an easy escape in any other variation of the kid’s story. Bossman is a master chess player. His eye sees at least three steps ahead.

Clint doesn’t really have to think about it very long; he is simply adjusting the pre-existing plan.

“Alright kid. Looks like you and I are going on a vacay. This has lined up suspiciously conveniently actually. I was gonna take a sabbatical in any case.”

“What do you mean? Dude, I can’t just drop everything to go drink pina collades on a beach somewhere!”

“Who said anything about a beach? And why not? Spiderman and Peter Parker have been out of the picture for a good week now and I don’t see any missing persons reports. There’s also been a distinct lack of explosions. I’m sure New York will be fine without you for a little while. Think of it as going undercover for a bit. The both of us need to lay low for a little while.”

“Agent Barton is correct,” Jarvis interjects. “The Avengers will adequately combat any dangers while the two of you are unavailable. ‘Going undercover’ as Agent Barton has suggested is a logical course of action while there are so many threats to your person.”

Peter frowns petulantly. “No. I’m not going. I can’t leave Aunt May.” 

“A moving target is harder to hit kid. Also, what are you crazy? We’re not gonna leave your Aunt here. She might ‘accidently’ walk into traffic or something. She’s vital for what I have planned in any case. So you better tell her you’re spiderman lickety split or this is gonna get awkward. God I’m starting to sound like Cap.”

“Wait what?”

 

 

 

 

 

Steve is unimpressed.

The soldier in him can’t help but find it a bit unprofessional. He also really wants to laugh. 

“What the hell is this stuff?”

The agent Peter had stuck to the kitchen floor had grabbed the leg covered in white goop as a knee-jerk reaction to its immovability. His hands are now stuck to his leg, leaving him in a very uncomfortable position curled over his knee. The remaining unstuck leg is desperately flailing in the other direction, trying not to join its sticky comrades. 

Steve really wants to poke him while he can’t slap his hands away.

Don’t get him wrong, usually he would be giving Agent Kilton a hand – he’s had lunch with the man a few times after all. He likes to meet everyone he’s working with. The man also happens to know where all the good hotdog stands are. But the agent really has brought this upon himself.

Steve is therefore perfectly content to hold back his smile and let Agent Kilton mutter and twitch in his crouched position between the four remaining people in the room. Tony isn’t quite as amicable. He’s been yelling since Peter’s exit.

Fury, being Fury, has been ignoring him. Instead he warily watches the door that Peter had sprung out of fifteen minutes ago, arms crossed.

The other agent, a man that Steve hasn’t met, had picked himself up after being used as a springboard, and is now standing just to the left and behind Fury. He is standing at the ‘at rest’ position, which means that Steve doesn’t have a fight on his hands. Lucky, since technically Fury is still his boss, and that would be unfortunate.

Still, Fury’s expression can’t be a good sign.

Everyone but Tony, who is still blowing off steam, tenses as the door opens to reveal another two agents and a very bland looking Agent Coulson.

“Sir, Barton and the asset are gone,” Agent Prendt says with a slight wince. Steve remembers him from the last mission he had completed – the man had a flawless American accent until angered, upon which he began swearing in the profane and lilting manner of the French. Steve hadn’t heard anyone threaten to do ungentlemanly things to a mother in such a beautiful way before. It had been pretty amazing.

“Define gone,” demands Fury with no inflection.

“Gone as in not here, left the building, no longer in ze vicinity!” 

Steve grimaces at the slip.

“I’m sorry, but do you mean to tell me that that boy incapacitated two well-trained agents in under five seconds before abdicating with one of the two human elements of the Avengers whom we have some level of control over? All while avoiding impregnable security? Is that what just happened?”

“Yes?”

“Good.”

“What, pray tell, is good about this situation sir? We managed to maintain the safety of Agent Barton and Peter Parker for less than half a day. Barton shouldn’t even be out of bed, let alone missing in action.” Phil Coulson’s voice is the blandest that Steve thinks he’s ever heard it. “He is my agent. I’m requesting permission to retrieve him.”

“Permission denied.”

The lack of expression on Coulson’s face is in stark contrast to the full-body stiffness that results from Fury’s words. The weight of the silence has everyone but the two men involved in the argument cringing. Steve fights the urge to hunch his shoulders.

“Very well, I’m calling in my favour.”

“We’re even, there are no favours to call.”

“I died. I think you owe me one.”

“I’m telling you no Phil.”

“Unacceptable. You can’t stop me.”

“Damn right I can’t stop you. But if you respect me and your position in SHIELD, you will step down. That’s not how this is gonna go.”

The two men spend the next three minutes making intense eye-contact. Steve knows this because he counted the seconds in his head. At the end of the three minutes Coulson abruptly turns and exits the room.

Fury glares at the door as the man pleasantly closes it.

“Well, this is gonna be a pain in my ass. Why can’t those two ever do things the easy way?”

“Sir? Are we letting the assets go?” Asks the unknown agent standing behind Fury.

“I wouldn’t worry about it Schnitt. Just imagine that I, the Director of SHIELD, actually know how to do my job. Odd concept I know. Now go cut Agent Kilton free. I have had enough kicked puppy expressions for one day.”

“WHAT THE FUCK!” Really, Steve’s surprised that Tony has kept quiet this long.

“IS ANYONE GONNA EXPLAIN THIS TO ME?” 

“Oh, put a sock in it Stark. You don’t trust me, we get it. Just think of this as those two being out of my dastardly clutches.”

“This might surprise you, but that is not actually reassuring,” says Tony, making what Steve assumes is a rude hand gesture. “How are we supposed to keep tabs on that ninja arrow-weilding menace huh? He could be bleeding out right this minute, and he wouldn’t tell us coz you’re here. Is this a good plan? Is it even plan?”

Steve, having already weighed the pros and cons of the situation and made a logical judgement call based on the information available to him, grabs Tony around the shoulders and herds him out of the room for an explanation.

“Steve! Hey Steve! What’re you doing? Pepper! PEPPER! I AM BEING MANHANDLED OUT OF A FIGHT! I do not approve! Jarvis, record this. Could be used later in court. You hear that Capsicle? I DO NOT CONSENT TO BEING DENIED MY GOD GIVEN RIGHT TO PUNCH THAT CONIVING PIRATE DIRECTLY IN THE FACE! I WILL USE THIS IN A COURT OF LAW!”

Steve makes vague conciliatory noises as he continues to haul him out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys,  
> guess who's back? Yup! I have finished my coursework for the year although I still have one exam left... but I have a bit of extra time so hopefully I'll be able to smash this out over the next few weeks!


	23. Chapter 23

“So, are you going to tell me what we’re gonna do before we go into the house or….?”

Peter and Clint have come full circle to stand on the front porch of Aunt May’s house. Peter is getting a horrible sense of Deja-vu, complete with flashbacks. 

It’s awesome.

Well, his spidey senses aren’t tingling this time ‘round. Which is surely a positive sign. Of course, they also could be on the fritz. He has had a pretty infinite run of bad luck recently. 

“Nah, it’s a surprise. A good one, I promise.”

Peter squints at Clint in suspicion before jerking the doorknob open. He may as well rip this trauma band aid off as quickly as possible.

“Aunt May?” He calls out hesitantly, edging his way through the door.

Clint taps Peter on the shoulder and motions that he’s going to enter the lounge room/kitchen on the left. Peter nods and heads up the stairwell, carefully avoiding the squeaky steps. Which is all of them, so he mostly just crawls up the bannister.

“Aunt May,” he hisses, keeping his voice down.

“Peter?”

“OH MY GOD AUNT MAY!” Peter rushes past his room and pushes open the door to his Aunt’s room. She is halfway to sitting up in her bed and lets out a watery laugh as Peter launches himself at her. He buries his face in her shoulder as she pets his hair. Both of their shoulders get a little wet. Peter rubs his nose into her warm cream cardigan.

“Peter,” May reprimands, but her voice is all wobbly. It just makes him burrow his face deeper.

It takes him a good few minutes to emerge. When he does May wipes at her face and fixes him with a stern look. She then bops him on the back of the head.

“Now where the heck have you been young man? I was worried sick about you!”

Peter chuckles a bit at the familiarity and kisses her on the cheek.

His Aunt fusses him and clicks her teeth at his mussed appearance as she looks him over.

“Now Peter, I know you are protecting me, but I think it’s about time we sorted out this spiderboy business of yours.”

“May!” Peter yelps, scandalized. “You’re not supposed to know about that!”

“Peter, really, do you think I’m silly? Washing the American flag? I don’t think you even own an American flag.”

“You worked this out because I turned the laundry pink one time!?”

“You’re not exactly subtle Peter.”

“Maaaaay!” He whines, “how am I gonna protect you now? You know things! They might grab you to get to me!”

“Well then, aren’t you just super lucky you’ve got little old me around? I keep telling you Peter, life’s much easier with people around to watch your back. Being a lone wolf isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” Clint is leaning comfortably against the doorframe.

“But, but…”

May smiles consolingly and pats her nephew lightly on the shoulder.

“Come on," says Clint, rolling his shoulders. "You’ve got an hour to pack you two. Fury’s probably onto us by now. We need to make tracks.”

“You still haven’t told us where we’re going!” Peter blusters as he jumps off the bed.

“Ooooh, an adventure!” Peter's Aunt has a concerning sparkle in her eye. “I’ll just go throw out the perishables. I think a picnic for the road is in order, what do you say boys?”

“I think that would be excellent,” Clint grins, offering her a hand out of bed.

“Fine!” Peter huffs as he heads towards his room.

 

 

 

Phil knows his duty. He knows what is expected of him as a high-ranking member of SHIELD, and sometimes this includes things that he finds to be… unsavoury. Phil is an optimist – he has faith in the system. That is not to say that he does not, on occasion, bend those rules to achieve the optimal outcome.

Phil likes his job. It has been his life for a very long time. He’s good at it.

He’s not really all that much without it. Being Agent Coulson has become so much a part of his identity that he can no longer separate his personal and professional lives. He knows this is unhealthy. It also terrifies him.

He is beginning to put his duty above him morals. Would he choose his job over the people he loves? What matters more to him at the end of the day? He can’t see in straight lines anymore.

Hawkeye is forcing him into a corner. Once he is trapped, a decision will have to be made. No matter what he chooses, Phil will again lose something that he cares about. 

Permanently. 

His only option is to attempt to dissuade Clint before the choice is taken from him. This is why Phil is sitting opposite Natasha at the Avenger’s dining table, her phone lying in the centre between them. They both know he’ll call. He can’t not, not without risking Natasha’s wrath.

Clint has been missing for just over four hours. They’re running out of time.

The more stressed Natasha becomes, the further she relaxes into her chair. It is a paradox that has served her well many times before, but Phil can’t help the tick in his jaw at her apparent calmness.

The phone buzzes. At the third ring Phil raises his eyebrow at Natasha. She sighs and reaches over to take the call.

She flicks her thumb over the speaker button, but says nothing.

“Tash?” Clint’s voice is cautious.

Natasha hums neutrally.

“Look, I know what you want to say, but I really just need to get away from all this shit for a while.”

Clint is met with silence. Which really isn’t all that surprising.

“I found that bug by the way. Figured that’s how you guys found me in that maze. I had to crush it. Whoever’s been working at making the damn things more durable is doing a good job.”

“You’re not stupid Clint. You know this won’t work. You can’t run from your problems.” Natasha’s voice is bland and inflectionless.

“Clint.” Phil waits for an acknowledgement from the man and takes what he can get in the grounding of teeth. “You can’t leave the city.”

“Actually, Agent Coulson, I’ll fuckin’ do what I want.”

“Clint,” Phil sighs, rubbing at the headache that’s been building for quite some time. “Please don’t leave the city. I will have to bring you in.”

“You can damn well try.”

“I made a promise. I’m sorry.”

There is a short silence which Phil allows so that Clint has time to consider his options. Natasha looks unimpressed with his current methods. Phil doesn’t know what else to say.

“Tash, look after the rest of them while I’m gone yeah? I’ve yet to see Stark last more than three days without causing a national-security incident. Also, the last time I was partnered with him on a mission we came across this vat of unknown liquid and he decided it would be a good idea to stick his hand in it. He fuckin’ stuck his hand right in there Tash! It could have been acid! What the heck are all his scanners for if he’s not gonna use them?” Clint takes a moment to catch his breath before continuing.

“Steve’s probably gonna get broody. Raccoon eyes is probably gonna be even more grumpy than usual, if only because Steve’s not gonna be happy. I don’t think you’ll need to worry about Bruce, he should be distracted by spider-kid’s blood for at least another week.”

“I’m not happy about this Clint,” Tash says as she stares menacingly at Phil.

“Yeah I know. This probably won’t end well, but the middle bit will be awesome. Give me a month head start before you come looking for my spleen okay?”

“You have two weeks.”

“Fine. See ya Tash.”

Phil and Natasha are left with the beeping noise that signals that Clint has hung up. Phil can feel his stomach slowly curdling. He’s never been so indecisive in his life.

“Promise?” Asks Natasha, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hand.

“I brought him in, it’s my responsibility.”

“He’s not a threat.”

“He knows too much. Too valuable.”

“He thinks you don’t care. Stop sending the wrong signals.”

“I have no choice Widow. He’s made his decision.”

“And have you made yours?”

Phil doesn’t know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Where the hell have you been?” Matt cringes at the shrill tenor of Foggy’s voice as he makes his way into the office. 

Today Foggy smells like coffee and concern.

“Hey. I needed to look into something. I took care of it. I’m fine.”

“HEY? Oh, hey! How’s it going? Really? That’s how we’re going to start the day? Also, Matt, no offence, but your ‘fine’ could mean anything between ‘I’m playing off my disorientation as a consequence of my blindness, but in reality I haven’t slept in three days,’ to ‘I’m limping due to the four bullets still wedged in my chest cavity.’ Both examples of actual things that have happened.”

“I don’t think I would survive four bullets to the chest.”

“As comforting as that thought is, don’t think I’ve failed to notice that you haven’t actually answered my question. This is my disappointed face Matt. I am wearing my disgruntled, disapproving face. There are frowny lines and everything. I will make you touch them. Don’t test me.” 

No other choice then. Matt will have to make use of his best friend’s weak spot.

He takes off his glasses.

“Argh! No! Not the puppy eyes! Why are you so good at that? You’re a muscly, haunted vigilante who could kick my butt three ways to Sunday. It should not be physically possible to look so weepy and adorable. Karrreeen! Tell Matt to stop with the eyes.”

“Morning Matt!” Karen calls from the other side of the room where she is once again wrestling with the copy-machine.

“Good morning Karen,” Matt replies as he places his glasses down on his desk. “Any cases today?”

“Well, the Dawsons called again about the home invasion with the burglar who tripped on their garden hose and who is now suing them, which I keep telling them is more of a civil matter and you two prefer working with criminal cases, but they’re getting really good at ignoring me. Mrs Miller wants to talk to you about her case – you know, in which she’s pleading not guilty to a number of charges of shoplifting – but I keep denying her since Foggy told me that you found out she’s lying. Oh, also, there was a phone call from a woman called Natasha who told me to tell you to ‘drop by,’ which was strangely ominous. She didn’t say much else. That’s about it.”

Froggy shuffles closer to Matt to sling a friendly arm over his shoulder.

“Aw Matt, if you were spending a few work days with a girl you could’ve just told me. I know that you and Claire are kinda on rocky ground. It woulda been cool.” Foggy is patting him on the back and Matt just knows he’s wearing his sympathetic smile. He lets out a sigh at the mess this situation has become.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I was seeing a girl these last couple of days?”

“Well, now I know you weren’t. So, thanks for that. But yes. Yes it would.”

“Foggy, I’m fine. You worry too much.”

“He’s wearing the ‘I don’t believe you’ face with his arms crossed again,” Karen helpfully interjects as she pushes a bundle of paperwork into Matt’s chest. “Here, distraction,” she winks at him as Foggy lets out a small ‘oomph’ as he apparently receives his own papers.

“Karen! Why are you always on his side? It’s the eyes isn’t it. It’s always the eyes.”

Matt chuckles and claps his friend on the shoulder before making his way towards his office.

He’s got a lot to get through.

 

 

 

Sixteen hours later Matt finds himself in full costume in the Avenger’s tower lobby. He’d been hoping that 1:00 in the morning would be early/late enough for the place to be deserted, but no such luck. Not only was he greeted at the door by a receptionist, he was also escorted straight into the avengers living quarters by a friendly yet professional bellboy.

He’d been fairly unimpressed with Matt’s costume.

He gestures towards the open space outside of the elevator when Matt takes his time stepping out. 

Matt takes two careful steps before deciding that maybe this hadn’t been his best idea. He never looks before he leaps, but perhaps he needs to stay with the devil he knows, which are, for the most part, small-time criminals and drug lords. 

The bellboy leaves him with the sound of an elevator button being pressed and a slight waft of air which translates into a small bow.

Matt crouches into a ready position purely on instinct. 

The Black Widow wastes no time in bursting towards him from where she had been leaning against the wall, keeping herself completely still. Matt hadn’t been able to scent her, which requires a significant amount of effort.

Natasha holds back nothing as she throws a violent right hook at Matt’s face, which he manages to catch with some effort. 

Her wrist is tiny. 

She uses his momentary distraction as he stares down at the appendage in his hand to take a leap forward, using his extended leg as a step ladder. Her knee comes precariously close to his nose as he bends his torso backwards. Matt can feel the wind she makes as it brushes past.

The Widow gracefully lands her leap and Matt readjusts his stance before hearing the subtle but definite click of a weapon being released.

“I am pointing my gun at your face.”

“Alright.”

“Please react accordingly.”

Matt steps forward and reaches out his hand to feather his fingertips along the nozzle of the pistol.

“There is only one who will test me, and he is not you.”

Natasha tenses but does not lower her weapon. Matt shrugs and lets a depreciating smile curl his lip. “Sorry.”

The Widow holds her stance a few seconds longer while Matt slowly and purposefully relaxes his body. He knows she won’t shoot him – she wants something from him.  
Eventually she lets out a put upon sigh and rolls her eyes. “Your mental health leaves something to be desired, but I suppose you’ll fit right in. Welcome Daredevil, to the Avengers. Try not to die in the first week – I have a friend who needs all the vacation days he can get.”

 

 

 

Nat feels better. Smacking Matt Murdock around had been a satisfactory cathartic release. It had also been very informative. Daredevil had probably enjoyed it just as much as she had.

She smirks and takes another sip of her lemongrass tea. She is curled in her favourite suspended hammock chair on the balcony of her floor in the Avengers tower. Tony’s billionaire status affords him spectacular views that Nat takes full advantage of whenever possible.

Her soft green pull-over keeps the slight chill of dusk away as she observes the ants below her, but the lack of a certain presence means she is not capable of attaining the same level of peace and contentedness as she has previously.

She will miss his warmth and somewhat morbid humour while he is gone. Some level of her own comfort goes with him, and she hopes he won’t make her worry for him yet again, as he is a troublesome man on his best days.

Of course, she never would have let him go if she didn’t believe he was capable of covering both Peter Parker’s and his own back, or if he hadn’t been in dire need of some time for introspection, rather than expending all of his energy on others, burning himself out.

That’s not to say that Natalia didn’t have other reasoning behind her acceptance of Clint’s decision to abdicate his role for a short period. One of the main points revolved around the other problem child in Natasha’s life – Phil Coulson. Nat herself hadn’t been as immune as she would have liked to that play of Fury’s hand. She understands Clint’s reaction even as she acknowledges that his coping mechanisms are completely impractical.

In this situation.

Clint had developed his psychological defences to protect himself from situations and circumstances which would have destroyed a lesser man. Nat herself dealt with her trauma very differently, although she is no longer as dark and blood thirsty as she once was.

She takes another sip of tea to shift her mind away from useless musings.

She has a message that she needs to convey to Phil Coulson. 

 

 

 

“Hey Wayde, what’re ya doing here? Haven’t see your ugly mug in like… I don’t know. What has it been? Like four and a half months?”

“I, my dearest friend who runs this bar and whose name I can’t remember, have been living life to the fullest. In which I mean I was kidnapped, and by kidnapped I’m talking stumbled into a secret evil dungeon and by living, I mean I was murdered several times.”

“So same old same old then?”

“You know me so well friend. Hey have you ever butt-fucked someone?”

The man sighs from behind the bar he’s leaning against and pours himself a shot of an unknown substance straight from an unlabelled bottle.

“Wayde, buddy,” The man says, downing the drink. “I know that you don’t understand basic concepts of human interaction, but generally people don’t like it when they’re asked personal, intimate questions on the fly. Like whether they’ve butt-fucked another person before.”

“Why not? I mean, I’m talking another guy by the way. I personally know that it doesn’t feel bad; but Vanessa was a kind, kind mistress. She eased me into it ya know? I mean, I can ease into things no problemo. Deadpool is a master of the slide. The slippy sluuuuuuuup. But, I mean how slippery does the slide need to be? What about finger to lube ra – “

“Holy Fuck we get the picture. There was no need for that. I do not need the mental image of Freddy Krueger fucking. I like to compartmentalise your burnt in a fire raison face far, far away from the porn memory bank.”

“The spank bank as you will.”

Weasel downs his second shot of the so-far two minute conversation.

“Yes, that. And no, I do not need yet another long list of masturbation euphemisms. I get enough dick talk during my regular work hours.”

**What no obligatory dick puns?**

“Takin’ the fun outta everything.”

“So, are you gay now? Is that a thing?”

**Gay for spiderman, Fuck yes.**

“Eeh, the forced heterosexuality of all marvel characters was getting boring. What kind of an idiot turns down sex when offered? Not that it’s been offered to me yet, but it hasn’t been pulled off the table. I like the table. It’s a nice table. Full of nice things. Buuns.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a name for that… Pansexual?”

“Gah, who gives a fuck about that I just want to fuck fluffy. But I also don't want to, because feelings and dependency and he wouldn't marry me in this one universe and it hurt me, right in the feels.”

“You wanna fuck the three headed dog from the first Harry Potter movie? In the ass? Never mind I don’t actually want to know more than I already do. Look, why are you asking me this? I just run a bar. I am not google in the form of a guy. You've never needed help getting your dick wet before. Just watch porn or something and take notes.”

“We both know that porn is not an accurate portrayal of a positive sexual relationship.”

“Can’t you just… you know, feel it out?”

“Aaarrgheleergh”

_Did we just make the Homer Simpson drooling noise? ___

**Forget that go back to the mental image of spider guy with our fingers up his ass.**

“Look can we stop having this conversation? I would really, really prefer to not be in even the general vicinity of anything close to this conversation.”

**Why are we still here again?**

_We had a mini freak out that we didn’t know how to fuck Petey tender without getting wierd about it. ___

**We're weird all the time. There has never been a moment in our collected conceivable memory when we haven't been at least slightly bonkers. What the fuck are we waiting for?**

Oh yeah. Well, fear alleviated. Let’s bounce.

“I’ll be back wise old man! You have my eternal gratitude for allowing me to share in your insights!”

“I’m like 29 dude. Also, you still owe me $50.”

“Too… Far Away… Can’t… Hear –“

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

“Well, isn’t this lovely!” 

May Parker hasn’t had this much fun in years. The sun is shining through the train window to her right, the cup of tea is the perfect temperature and ratio of milk-to-tea, her nephew-son and the nice young man are sleeping in the double seat across from her and she’s involved in her son/nephew’s plans.

Life couldn’t be better.

Ever since she found out that her boy was spiderman, she hasn’t been able to shake the anxiety from the forefront of her mind. She watches the television coverage and seethes quietly at the injustice and ungratefulness of law enforcement and the media… it makes her want to barge into their safe little offices and give them a piece of her mind. Really, Peter is only trying to help. A little thanks would be nice!

But this is much better. She can actively keep her eye on the boy. She’s also grateful that he seems to have finally found some people who might be able to watch out for him and protect him in a meaningful way. May is a little ashamed that she doesn’t have that power anymore, but she’ll damn well do the best she can to keep him safe, healthy and happy in her own way.

She lets them sleep for the entire journey, only waking them as the attendant’s voice alerts them of their stop.

The man, Clint, jerks awake immediately, no trace of having been asleep mere moments before. Peter mumbles something and lets his head drop on the other man’s shoulder.  
May sighs, exasperated, as she calls her son’s name again. Clint smiles at her and gently jostles the younger man.

“Ugh, stop it. I’m up,” Peter mumbles, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Clint shoulders May’s bag before she can reach up and grab it, and hauls his own over his other shoulder. Peter snaps his own bag up as Clint makes to grab it, huffing as he slides it over his shoulders. Clint merely shrugs and sends May a wink.

“Alright, so we’re not too far away. My crowd usually like to be close to transit zones – lots of people and an easy means to keep moving,” Clint informs them as they exit the station.

He offers May his arm as they walk down the road of the small town. She swats the offending limb with a laugh before opening up her umbrella, taking hold of Peter instead. Clint smirks and leads the way.

Before long, the unmistakable shape of a massive circus tent comes into view. May gasps appreciatively at the sheer size of it, clutching Peter’s arm as they move towards the red and yellow structure.

Clint has slightly more skip in his step as he stops a few hundred metres from the massive tents and its surrounding camper vans and other assorted trailers. 

“Welcome, the both of you, to Mistress Maples’ circus. Let’s see who’s around.”

 

 

 

Clint is giddy. It’s been years since he visited the fine folks of Mistress Maples – one of the few circuses he had travelled with after leaving Carson’s which he had actually kept connections with. Paulie Maple was a difficult woman to dissuade. She also happened to be one of the most open-minded and welcoming people that Clint had ever met, and would surely take in two wanted men and a wandering citizen with a hearty slap on the shoulder, no questions asked, as long as she could have fun while doing so.

This welcoming attitude, however, did not mean that the members of the Maple circus were push-overs, oh no. From what he can remember, this particular circus had an unconscious means of attracting members with a sharp edge under all their kindness. 

Despite this similarity of certain traits, the performers and crew members themselves were highly diverse in race and culture, as Mistress Maple had a hard time saying no to wanderers in need, as long as they could make themselves useful in one way or another.

“Clint Barton, as I live and breathe,” calls the woman herself as she exits the grand performance tent in front of them. The years have been very kind to the Mistress. She still pulls off the skin-tight ball-gown and her hair remains sleek, black and wavy without a grey in sight. There must be a show later tonight if she’s this dressed up already.

“Mistress P! Been a while.”

“I don’t deign to speak to misbehaving children,” the woman sniffs as she crosses her arms. “Five years you miscreant. Five years!”

“How’s your latest fling going for ya?”

“Oh you awful man. That’s none of your damn business. But she’s fine. Thank-you for asking.”

Clint’s smirk breaks into a smile and he jogs over to lift the woman into a hug. “You know, you should share whatever tea you’re drinking these days,” he says as he releases her. “I could do with some immortality.”

“What can I say? I age well. Now what can I do for you? This almost certainly isn’t a social visit. And who have you brought with you this time? You always did have the most interesting entourages.”

“Yeaaaaah, about that. This is Peter – he’s like Thomas I guess. That’s his Aunt and legal guardian. You alright with harbouring some fugitives for a bit?”

“Of course! Our circus is free from the restrictions of federal law as an international neutral ground after all. You may think of us as your safe-zone in whatever game of cat and mouse you are currently playing.” The Mistress says as she lays a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “If you like them then I’m sure they’ll fit right in here. But not for free of course! Can’t afford that.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less. Just… no sequins this time ok?”

Mistress Maples smirks and pats the shoulder underneath her hand. Clint takes one look at her face and grimaces. The woman chuckles and leans in to kiss his cheek before turning her appraising eyes towards Peter and May, who have politely kept their silence during the two’s reunion.

“My, my! Aren’t you two adorable. Clint usually has less refined taste. Any special skills you would like to share? If not there are plenty of little odd jobs around our home that a pair like you could contribute to.”

Peter blushes and shuffles his feet. His Aunt, in comparison, extends her hand towards the tall woman in front of them.

“I’d be more than happy to help out with anything that needs doing, as long as you think I’m capable,” she says as she grasps the Mistress’s hand, shaking firmly.

“Excellent! And how about you young man?”

“Ah,” Clint interrupts, coming up behind Mistress Maple, “I’ve got plans for the kid Paulie. Thought he might give me a hand with my act.”

The Mistress hums non-committedly and glances at the flustered boy in front of her. “Well, I suppose I don’t mind as long as you can live up to your previous reputation.”

“Oh, I think you’ll be surprised,” Clint grins, moving to sling an arm around Peter’s shoulders.

“Well come on then! Lucille will want to see you. You might even convince her to let you use her trailer while she’s sharing my bed. She always did have a soft spot for you.”

“Yes, I’m sure she’d love to chat; right after she’s left with me with a few more bruises than I came in with. That woman never did know her own strength.”

The Mistress only laughs as she leads them off through the fair grounds.

Fifteen minutes later, Clint has got his arms around another exceptionally beautiful woman. She’d jumped him the minute he’d opened the door to her trailer. Lucille is significantly younger than Paulie, and has lost none of the intimidating aura that Clint became so accustomed to when he was younger. He lets out a strangled laugh as her hug tightens around his middle. She could easily crush him – her act revolves around her crazy strength. Clint often uses her training regiment to keep his upper-body strength at an acceptable level, but she still outclasses him, even after all these years.

Paulie lets him suffer the embrace a few more moments before lightly rubbing the other woman’s back. “Luci, pumpkin, put the poor boy down.”

Lucille grumbles but does so. She’s smaller than Clint so she only has to straighten her back before Clint’s feet are making contact with the ground.

“Who’d you bring with you this time, you loser?” Asks the scowling woman, although Clint can see the happiness poorly concealed in her eyes. He once again introduces his new companions, smiling as Lucille treats both Peter and May to a hug of their own in greeting. They get significantly gentler treatment to Clint’s amusement.

“So how long will you kip with us then?” Asks Luci after Clint has brought them both up to speed.

“At least two or three months if you’re up to it – how long until you pull up pegs?”

Paulie drums her fingers against her chin. “Maybe three more weeks? We have 6 more shows scheduled here but our next location isn’t expecting us for a month. You won’t have to perform here, but if you’re travelling with us I expect that you’ll have an act ready by the end of the month.”

“I should probably mention that we might get some company somewhere down the road,” Clint informs the two women, rubbing the back of his sheepishly. Nat had given him little more than a month after all.

Lucille smiles and wraps her arm around Paulie’s waist. “Well, you’ll have to squeeze ‘em into my bunk because that’s the only spare space we got. I certainly don’t mind bunking with my boo. Keep in mind though, I only have a double bed and a pull out couch that you can see there. I might have a hammock tucked away somewhere, but you’re gonna be sharin’ most of the space in here already.”

“Well manage just fine young lady,” May reassures. “Thank-you for giving up your own space for us; we would have taken a spare square of dirt if need be, but your kindness is greatly appreciated.”

“Uh yeah,” Peter adds when his Aunt shoots him a look. “Thank-you very much, and it’s nice to meet you and I’m happy to help out whenever you want and…” He trails off turning a bright pink as Clint chuckles and ruffles his hair. 

Luci lets out a little squee and crosses the trailer to hug him again. 

Although she’s warmth and sunshine now, Clint will be getting plenty of entertainment in the near future as his two travelling companions meet Lucille’s secondary performer’s personality. Not to mention the rest of the circus crew.

Pauline comes over and leans against Clint’s side, her eyes full of mischief and her thoughts quite obviously following Clint’s. “Much as I’d like to introduce you to everyone today, we’re all just finishing up preparations for tonight’s show so it’ll have to wait for tomorrow. Curtain’s up in two hours, so we’ll have to find something for you to do. May was it? I don’t mean to assume – you’re welcome to refuse if it’s not your cup of tea, but would you mind helping the chef with dinner tonight?”

“As long as it’s not meatloaf I’d be more than happy to chip in.”

“Wonderful. Clint, given your pinpoint accuracy I might put you in the cage to man the centre-post lights. The lighting technicians always draw straws to determine who will have the distinct displeasure of gaining that job. I think you’ll like it. Talk to Kaede about the lighting directions but it’s very similar to the show we did in Montana.”

Clint tips an invisible hat to her. Mistress Maple turns considering eyes to Peter.

“Now, what to do with you. Hmmm. Scared of heights?”

Peter shakes his head no.

“Are you quick on your feet? Sure-footed? How’s your night vision?”

“Ok I guess?”

“Well, we lost a member of the stage crew to a family emergency – he’ll be back next week. But for now, we could use the help with the transitions between acts. We need an extra body to quickly remove or introduce props, unhook wires, close or open trapdoors, push and pull the stage into becoming what we need for the next section of the show. Would you be willing to do this?”

“Sure! Sounds interesting,” Peter agrees easily.

“Excellent. I’ll leave you in the very capable hands of Moses. He’ll show you what to do. Now come along you three, I’ll show you where to find the people you’ll need.”

Lucille smiles and holds the door open for them as the four leave her trailer.

“Here ya go Clint; the keys to the kingdom. Don’t break her. I’m gonna grab a few things I need from inside, so I might see you later,” she says as she leans her cheek towards the madam to accept a kiss. “I’ll leave it open for you.”

“Thanks Luci,” Clint says as he falls into step behind the madam.

It feels good to be back.

 

 

_Where the fuck are we?_

_How did we get here?_

_How did we conveniently know to come here?_

**Shut up, we probably tracked fluffy here with our mad skillz – stop questioning every insignificant detail. We can’t sap the author’s motivation or we might end up in the discontinued pile.**

_Le Gasp! Not the discontinued pile!!_

“Hey you! You can’t be back here!” 

Deadpool whips his head around to find a man clad all in black stalking towards him.

_That’s a sad excuse for a ninja. What’s he thinking? His delicate archilies heel is exposed. How very unbecoming._

“Who, little old me?” Deadpool asks, pointing an exaggerated finger at himself and tilting his head innocently.

The man grabs his arm ( _And we totally didn’t kill him for it! Character growth_ ) and coerces Wayde back towards the circus spectators.

“Hey, so you wouldn’t have happened to have seen my fluffy around anywhere? He’s about yea high, soft and squishy and squeaks really high and just *argh* ya know? when you squeeze him.”

“Sir, we’ll be sure to notify you if we find your dog. Please take a seat and enjoy the show.”

_What, so he’s totally fine with spandex-clad men in full body-suits coming to watch the circus? And lost dogs? Do I need to hurt this guy?_

**He’s probably immune to weird costumes in his line of work. The dog thing remains to be explained.**

_Wait, did he just call Petey a dog? We’ll get him for that._

**Yes, yes very original of us. Let’s ignore our serious killer personality for a moment and see if Petey’s part of the show.**

“Thank you young circus man. Off you go, nothing to see here, I’m just going to watch this circus thingy that I came here, specifically this circus, to which I most definitely bought an entry ticket, to see. I’ll torture interrogate – I mean see – you later.”

The man blinks slowly at him before disappearing back behind the curtain that Deadpool had been investigating. Petey is close; he knows it. He can almost taste him now.

_This guy’s head makes a great leg-rest. The seat is comfy too._

**Shhhh, it’s starting.**


End file.
